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THE 


HISTORY OF MICHAEL 


KEMP, 


THE HAPPY FARMER’S LAD: 


& 2Tale of Rustic 3Ltfe, 

ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE SPIRITUAL BLESSINGS AND TEMPORAL 
ADVANTAGES OF EARLY PIETY. 



FROM THE SIXTH LONDON EDITION. 


NEW YORK: 

ROBERT CARTER, 58 CANAL STREET. 


1841. 



INTRODUCTION 


TO THE SIXTH LONDON EDITION. 


The tale of rustic life here narrated is as instruct- 
ive as it is interesting. The lamented authoress de- 
voted many years of her valuable life to the busi- 
ness of education. This led her habitually to study 
individual character, with a view to the application 
in each particular instance of the method of culture 
best suited to inform the mind and amend the heart. 
She possessed, at the same time, remarkable natural 
sagacity ; a lively imagination ; extraordinary acute- 
ness of discrimination ; and withal that rare endow- 
ment, genius. As well, therefore, from professional 
avocations as from mental qualifications, was she 
fitted to become a student of human nature : and 
in this pursuit her proficiency was commensurate 
with her application. Few persons could with equal 
precision penetrate motives, detect disguises, and an- 
alyze principles. Happily for society, this faculty 
of Mrs. WoodroofFe’s was uniformly directed and 
regulated by Christian principle. Like the benev- 
olent Cowper, her expositions of faults and frailties 
are designed not to exasperate, but to reform. 


4 


INTRODUCTION. 


The History of Michael Kemp may he said to 
illustrate the important Scripture statement, that 
“ godliness is prof table unto all things , having 
promise of the life that now is, and of that which 
is to come” This is apparent throughout a suc- 
cession of occurrences and an involution of events 
in which a great diversity of agents act their several 
parts, and contribute at once to the amusement and 
the instruction of the reader. Although the story 
relates principally to humble life, its lessons are 
really applicable also to individuals moving in 
higher and other spheres ; among whom, indeed, it 
has had a large circulation. It is sent forth in the 
anxious hope that the pious object of the excellent 
authoress may be still further accomplished — with ' 
the earnest desire that, though dead, she may yet 
speak effectually to every reader who may require 
to be either taught or reminded of the great prac- 
tical truth which it corroborates. 


THE 


HISTORY OF MICHAEL KEMP. 


CHAPTER I. 

The village of P. was situated on a gentle ascent 
clothed with beech woods. An oval area seemed to 
have been cleared for the church and village. The 
clergyman (though not a rich man) loved his people, 
and his kind heart was always planning something to 
do them good. As the ascent to church was rather 
steep, he employed old men and boys to make it more 
gradual, and planted various beautiful evergreens for 
the last furlong of the way. On Saturday afternoon, 
four boys, who delighted in doing anything which 
could oblige the clergyman or his family, swept this 
path as clean as a parlor. It was pleasing to see how 
cheerful they were, if any of the family met them and 
thanked them for their industry. One of these lads, 
whose name was Michael Kemp, had become a 
truly good boy ; that is, he was a Christian , convinced 
of his need of a Savior, and rejoicing in the hope of 
everlasting life through Jesus Christ. This hope in- 
1 * 


6 


THE HISTORY OF 


spired him with a desire to please God, who had done 
so much for him ; and as Mr. Walker had been ever 
anxious to lead the children of the Sunday-school to 
consider time as only preparatory to eternity, this lad 
thought he could never do enough to prove his grati- 
tude to the person who was the means of doing him so 
great a service. Sometimes she gathered blackberries 
for the children, sometimes made nets for the fruit- 
trees ; and though he was always well paid for his atten- 
tion, yet the love which prompted it was so pleasing 
to Mr. Walker, that he heard with great concern 
Michael was hired to live in Worcestershire, and 
lamented the loss of a boy who was so good an exam- 
ple in his parish. 

The time came when Michael was to see the world 
(as he called it) ; for, though a good lad, he had a cu- 
riosity to visit other places and other persons, little 
thinking (poor fellow!) how much better off he was 
at home. 

When he arrived at H., the master received him 
very civilly ; told him his business ; took him over 
his farm and stable ; and said h’e would find it a good 
place, if he did his duty. “ My horses must be well 
fed, and well kept, but I will have no waste.” Michael 
made no reply, but bowed respectfully. Farmer Moss 
was a man of judgment : he liked the boy’s looks, 
and he did not like him the less for his silence. On 
Saturday evening Michael found his work was as late 
as on any other evening. This surprised him ; for 
the master he had lived with at P. gave these orders i 
Si To-morrow is Sunday : let all business cease, and 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


7 


your horses be in the stable, at six ; be ready to clean 
all up for the sabbath, and let the days-men come for 
their wages by seven, or I shall not pay till Monday.” 
Not so here : work was later than usual ; no appear- 
ance of laborers ; the evening was lengthened ; and 
when Michael had finished, and was going to bed, his 
master said : “ My lad, you need not hurry up in the 
morning ; church does not begin till eleven. If you 
are down by eight, it will do.” Michael made no re- 
ply. He was up at his usual time, but came down by 
eight. He searched his Bible to see what was his 
duty, if he were in an irreligious family ; for such he 
feared this was. He found Daniel did his duty at the 
court of Darius, but he did not presume to reprove his 
superiors till called, upon. He found the Scriptures 
universally enjoining meekness and submission. The 
Bible was Michael’s guide, and he resolved to follow 
it. Before he went down, he made the following 
prayer : “ O Lord, thou knowest I am a poor weak 
boy, and it is not in man to direct his steps : look up- 
on me ; give me spiritual wisdom to walk wisely in 
thy way. Honor me by making me useful in this 
house. May I order myself lowly and reverently to 
all my betters.” He added much more, which is not 
now to our purpose. 

Greatly was Michael surprised, to see a very ragged 
set of men and women beset the door, about nine 
o’clock, and clamor who should get in first ; and also, 
to see Farmer Moss open his wainscot desk, and take 
out his bag of money and pay each their weekly 
wages. Michael said nothing to his master : he was 


8 


THE HISTORY OF 


to order himself lowly and reverently. He said noth- 
ing of him, because he was to keep his tongue from 
evil speaking. He was just running out of the room, 
when his master called out, “ Hark ye, lad ; take the 
mare and carry a cheese to * * *. Turn to the right, 
when you get out of the village ; go straight by the 
turnpike; you can’t miss. Ask for Mrs. Foster. Tell 
her the cheese is tenpence the pound, and it weighs 
eleven pounds and a half.” “ Sir,” said Michael, col- 
oring up till he was read as scarlet, “ami — am I to 
go to-day ?” “ Go directly , and you may be back for 

church ; it is but two miles and three quarters.” Mi- 
chael did not know what he ought to do. At last he 
recollected his Bible, and he remembered three texts : 
first, “ Servants, obey your masters in all things 
next, “ Remember the sabbath-day to keep it holy 
and then, “We ought to obey God rather than men.” 
He sighed, and said, “ What shall I do ?” He was 
in the passage : his master heard him, and on coming 
out, saw the boy looking very odd ; on which he said, 
“ What ails thee, lad ?” “ Sir,” said Michael, “ I 

don’t know what to do.” “ Didn’t I tell thee, turn to 
the right ?” “ Yes, sir ; but — ” “ But what ? What 

is the lad doing ?” “ Sir, my father and Mr. Walker 

both told me, when I didn’t know what to do, always 
to act as the Bible speaks.” “ And what has the Bi- 
ble to do with the road to * * *, boy ?” “ Sir, it says, 

‘ Remember the sabbath-day to keep it holy ;’ and it 
says, ‘ Servants, obey your masters in all things .* ” 
And the boy stood (pointing to the text with his fore- 
finger), trembling and blushing. “ Humph,” said the 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


9 

farmer, whistling, “this comes of Sunday-schools. — 
Ho, there, Jem !” A smart lively boy appeared. 
“ Go you to * * *, to Mrs. Foster’s. Take the cheese ; 
say it is tenpence the pound, and weighs eleven 
pounds and a half.” “Yes, sir.” “Take the mare, 
d’ye hear.” “ Yes, sir.” “ Be sure you come back 
to church.” 

While this passed between Jem and his master, 
Michael’s thoughts travelled to P. “ If we regard 
iniquity in our hearts, the Lord will not hear,” was a 
favorite text with Mr. Walker. The very Sunday 
before Michael left P., he preached on it, and said, in 
the close of his sermon : “ One truth I wish to im- 
press on your minds : if you profane the sabbath, and 
then enter this church to worship, such worship is an 
offence unto God. Turn to the 58th chapter of Isai- 
ah, and the 13th and 14th verses : ‘ If thou turn away 
thy foot,* ” &c. Michael thought : “I never shall for- 
get that day, and I hope never to forget the sermon.” 

The farmer, as he drew near, looking graver than 
usual, said, “ You may go to church now ; the bell 
tolls. Any of the folk will tell you where to sit.’’ 
Michael bowed, and went out. When he came into 
the church-yard, he found it very full. It was a fine 
warm day ; and the people were an odd mixture — 
some well dressed, others shabby and smart, and some 
scarcely decent. One small group attracted Micha- 
el’s attention. They stood apart from the congrega- 
tion, near the wall ; and those outside seemed to 
watch sharply to see if the clergyman was coming. 
Michael’s first thought was, that they were waiting to 


10 


THE HISTORY OF 


catch a smile, as he had been used to do from Mr. 
Walker ; till, hearing the pattering of the hoofs of 
horses, the whole company dispersed. And he was 
surprised to see a mark on the ground, as if they had 
been at marbles : and so indeed they had ! Michael 
hastened into church ; and, going through the porch, 
saw many farmers sitting, and his master among 
them. They were talking very loud ; and he heard 
one say, “ I never saw a finer heifer another, 
“ That piece of land is desperate wet, however.” 
He passed on ; and as he stood waiting to be put into 
a seat, several fellows ran out of the belfry as hard as 
they could, and in their nailed shoes, clattered into 
the gallery, laughing and whispering loud, till the 
clergyman began to read. 

He was a very fine -looking young man, with a 
genteel countenance and manner. He read the ser- 
vice with more than common attention ; and when the 
prayers were over, a psalm was sung, in the gallery, 
by some of the young men. Michael was surprised 
to observe that the young men who sung were whis- 
pering almost all the time of service ; that none of 
them brought a prayer-book ; and that the singing was 
all with them. Few people joined in the responses, 
though the congregation was large. There seemed 
to be no Sunday-school, and very few children in pro- 
portion to the size of the village. Michael fixed him- 
self with great attention to hear the sermon, and joined 
Mr. P. very devoutly, when he uttered that beautiful 
collect : “ Blessed Lord, who hast caused all holy 
Scriptures to be written for our learning, grant that 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


11 


we may in such wise hear them, read, mark, learn, 
and inwardly digest them, that, by patience and com- 
fort of thy holy word, we may embrace, and ever 
hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life which 
thou hast given us in our Savior Jesus Christ. 
Amen” The text was : “ Judge not, that ye be not 
judged.” Michael prayed that he might not judge 
any one, and lifted his eyes to the preacher. Mr. P. 
warned the people, in a very florid manner, not to 
suspect their neighbors pf evil ; to avoid fancying 
themselves better than their neighbors ; to be kind 
one to another, and to live in good fellowship with 
each other ; and that such a life would be pleasing to 
God, and secure our eternal salvation. Michael won- 
dered, because he had always been taught that our 
salvation was the gift of God through Jesus Christ ; 
and he was greatly surprised to hear such a gentle- 
man, who had ended every prayer with “ through 
Jesus Christ our Lord,’’ talk of living in kindness 
with one another as the way of salvation. About 
twenty minutes ended the sermon. The farmer went 
up to ask Mr. P. if he wouldn’t come in. He 
thanked him, but said he was going to dine with Sir 
Robert, and would call another time : he touched his 
horse, and was out of sight in an instant. 

Michael went home : dinner was ready ; provis- 
ions, good, plentiful, and cleanly, were ever provided 
at Farmer Moss’s, and every comfort of life was 
found in his dwelling ; he was a liberal, but a proud 
man. He had not forgot Michael and his texts ; they 
had been present to his imagination all the morning : 


12 


THE HISTORY OF 


but Michael was respectful, he had not spoken a 
word, his look was timid, not saucy ; and as the 
farmer could not deny the word of God, he thought, 
if the lad continued to behave well, he should pass 
it by. 

He sat down to dinner, looked at the men, and 
suddenly exclaimed, “ Where ’s Jem ?” — “1 do n’t 
know,” answered William ; “ he was not at church.” 
— “ Odds ! I sent him to Mrs. Foster’s ; he went on 
the mare ; go, see, William, if you can find him.” 
William returned — he was not to be found. The 
farmer dined ; but he was uneasy. Michael rose, 
and, blushing very deeply, said, “ Will you please, 
sir, that I should go and seek him?” The farmer, 
with his face turned to .he window, said. “ Ay, boy, 
an you will.” Scarce h d he reached the turnpike- 
road ere he met poor Jem, with his head tied up and 
his arm in a sling, supported on an old horse by a 
good-looking old man, and the mare limping, both 
her knees be: p sadly cut. Michael was a most 
tender-hearted boy, and he looked and felt all kind- 
ness toward both. “ What can I do, sir ?” said he. 
“ Lead the mare, child.” In this order they reached 
the farm ; F armer Moss was looking out, and he was 
alternately pale and red, as the boys drew near. 
“ Hey, Jem ! what ’s the matter ?” — “ Sir — sir,” 
said the boy (in a crying tone), “ I could n’t help it, 
sir ; I hurt my head ” — “ and the mare's knees /” 
added the farmer. “ I would n’t have had the mare’s 
knees broke,” continued he, “ for fifty pounds ! no-o-o f 
not for fifty pounds /” — “ Sir,” said the boy, “ my 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


13 


head bleeds sadly, what shall I do ?” Michael led 
the poor boy in, and ran back again to his master. 
“ Sir, shall I go for the doctor ?” — “ No, boy, what 
for ?” — “ For Jem, sir.” — “No, tie it up with a little 
sugar ; it will be well in the morning.” The mare 
was led into the stable : the men were called in to 
look at her ; and Farmer Newton was sent for, but 
his opinion did not mend the matter — “ ’T is a bad 
business ; that mare will never be what she has been.” 
— “ Never !” said Farmer Moss. Jem was in terri- 
ble pain all night — quite delirious. Michael sat up 
with him ; and at five o’clock next morning he went 
to his master’s door, and said, “ Sir !” Then he 
tapped. “ Sir !*’ — “ Well, lad, what now ?” — “ Sir, 
Jem is very bad ; the gruel did not do any good, and 
the bandage has been tom off many times : he ’s in a 
desperate raging fit, sir, and I ca n’t watch him, in- 
deed I ca n’t ; and I ’m afraid he ’ll die.” The farmer 
got up and went to the boy’s room, and found him 
raving in a burning fever. “ Why,” said the farmer, 
u he does look very sick, indeed ! Do you know 
where our doctor lives ?” Michael bowed, and said, 
“ No, sir, but I can ask.” — “ No, Robert shall go.” 
Robert returned in about an hour, and the doctor soon 
followed. The boy was examined ; his scull was 
fractured ; a consultation was called, and an operation 
determined on. Michael ran up and down ; never for 
three weeks did the poor fellow get one whole night’s 
rest ; he was ever within call ; he worked all day, and 
watched by night ; and constantly prayed with simple 
Christian fervor that God would please to restore 
2 


♦ 


14 THE HISTORY OF 

poor Jem. And one day, when he was very earnest 
in prayer for him, and saying, “ O Lord, spare him !” 
Jem looked at him, and said, “ Why, Michael, what 
art muttering about ?” 

Michael. My dear Jem, 1 am praying for you. 

Jem. That ’s very kind, indeed ; for I ’m sure it *s 
more than I do for myself. 

Michael. Why, Jem, do you never pray ? 

Jem. No, not now, I ’ve quite forgot ; grandmother 
used to teach me a prayer. 

Michael. What was that 1 

Jem. Oh ! there was a great deal of it : there was 
ten ; and it began about having no other gods but one. 

Michael. Why those are the Commandments. 

Jem. Ah, so ’t was ! Well, I did learn another 
about “ Our Father.” 

Michael. Yes ; that was our Lord’s Prayer. 

Jem. Ah, so it was. 

Michael. My dear Jem, I wonder what you can 
be thinking of when you are at church, because the 
Commandments and the Lord’s Prayer are repeated 
every Sunday. 

Jem. I hardly ever go to church ; I do n’t see the 
use on ’t. Master almost always sleeps. The ladies 
always seem to be looking about at the other ladies : 
and as for me, I never could understand what I went 
to church for ; our parson talks so very genteel, and 
the prayers are so very long, I am really so tired I 
never do wish to go. 

Michael. And where do you go ? 

Jem. Oh I never know. Sometimes I go to see 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


15 


my sister, sometimes I go to fives, sometimes I bathe ; 
I do just what I like. 

Michael . Ah, Jem ! I hope, when you are well, you 
will go and return public thanks for your recovery. 

Poor Jem made no reply, deceit formed no part of 
his character. He longed to get well, for he was 
tired of lying in bed ; but he rather wished to recover 
that he might enjoy himself. Prayer and praise had 
as yet formed no part of his enjoyment : for the first, 
he knew nothing about it ; and when he heard the 
clerk say, “ Let us sing to the praise and glory of 
God,” he always found people in the gallery singing, 
and no one in the congregation joining, so that he 
drew a very natural conclusion, that it was no part 
of his business. 

Michael had so long watched Jem, that he loved 
him, and could not rest easy till he made him feel 
that it was his duty to pray ; and he daily became 
more anxious about him, for he had heard Mr. Walker 
say, “ If affliction does not soften, it hardens and 
he knew that Jem had no man caring for his soul. 
He saw that his master was more uneasy about the 
horses, and he felt that his care of Jem was very im- 
portant. He had heard Mr. Walker say, that “we 
should undertake nothing without prayer and this 
made him feel how necessary it was to pray before 
he could hope to do any good to others. 

One Monday evening, after market, Farmer New- 
ton called on Farmer Moss, and after other chat, Mi- 
chael passing through the room, his master called to 
him, and asked, what the doctor said about Jem. 


16 


THE HISTORY OF 


— “ Sir ?” said Michael ; “ the doctor, sir V ’ — “ Ayv 
lad,” said the farmer, coloring high ; “ did n’t I order 
the doctor to come ?” — “ Yes, sir.” — “ Well, boy — 
he did come. Well, boy?” in a very angry tone, 
“ But, sir,” trembling, “ he has not been here for 
more than a fortnight.” — “ Oh! but I suppose there 
is no occasion — ” — “Oh yes, sir, I believe there 
is ; for I am obliged to eat down the proud flesh twice 
in the week with lump-sugar.” — “ Well, if the boy 
wants the doctor, he shall have him : it shall never 
be said any boy was neglected in my house.” Mi- 
chael bowed, and said, “ If you please, sir, I ’ll go 
and fetch him, for I do think that ointment don’t 
agree.” — “ You may go an you will,” was an answer 
always at hand when Farmer Moss granted a petition 
against his will. Michael went. “ What an uncom- 
monly fine boy that is!” said Farmer Newton. — 
“ Humph !” said Farmer Moss, “ the boy ’s well 
enough, but such boys want keeping down.” — “ Well, 
I do n’t know, but I always thought that boy uncom- 
monly good.” — u Ay, ay, I dare say you did ; but 
that boy can say uncommonly impudent things.” — 
“ Indeed !” said Farmer Newton ; “ well, if ever you 
part with him, I should like to have him. I never 
saw a stable like yours ; I never saw such a pigsty ; 
1 never saw such a saddle-house’, everything in it 
shines, no dirt ; and the boy himself is always clean- 
I say the boy is a fine boy, and main clever.” — “ No, 
no, no ! I’m not going to part, if he behaves as he has 
done since Jem was ill. I ca n’t say I wish to part 
with him.” — “ Why, I thought he was but just come 


MICHA.EL KEMP. 


17 


when Jem fell ; that very Sunday, they told me : and 
your man William says he never saw such a lad, 
he can do everything, he is always busy ; and then 
the boy is so handy. Last Thursday I broke the lash 
of my whip, as I was driving my wife, and our horse 
Norfolk will not stir a step without a whip. I saw 
your lad : * Michael/ says I, ‘ can you mend this 
whip, d’ye think?’ — ‘I’ll try, sir, if you please.’ 
He stepped into the shop just by ; got some strong 
brown thread, waxed it well, and the whip has held 
ever since. Now it is not the value of the whip, but 
I like to look at it, it ’s a standing proof what a wil- 
ling mind can do.” Farmer Moss made no reply ; he 
was rather tired of hearing Michael’s praise. “ Well, 
good-night, neighbor !” said Farmer Newton, and so 
they parted. 

The doctor arrived soon. He hoped all was going 
on welL “ Oh yes,” said the farmer, “ I have no 
doubt on ’t. I think the boy ’s well enough !” — “ In- 
deed !” said the doctor. “ Your lad thought the oint- 
ment did n’t agree.” — “ Ay, he thought /” — “ Why, 
to be sure,” said the doctor, “ the maid-servant who 
attends him must know best.” Farmer Moss walked 
away ; for the boy had no other attendant than 
Michael ! 

The doctor found as Michael said — proud flesh 
gaining in the wound ; and he was obliged to put J em 
to much pain. He was a sensible man, and a gen- 
erous man ; and, yet more, he was a good man. 
“ Farmer,” said he (when he came down stairs), 
u that boy has been attended like a prince ; but he 
2 * 


18 


THE HIS TORT OF 


wants surgical care. I shall call every morning this 
week.” — “ You ’re very good, sir,” said Farmer Moss, 
coldly. 

Jem recovered ; and his attachment to Michael was 
proportioned to his good offices. The horse too re- 
covered ; Michael knew of an excellent remedy for 
broken knees, and privately applied it to the horse : 
it was a recipe given him by a farrier who liked the 
boy. The event passed by, and, by Farmer Moss, as 
a dream ! He had suffered nothing, he had lost noth- 
ing ; no impression was made : but Jem had promised 
Michael, if ever he did get well, he would go to 
church with him, he would say his prayers ; and 
though at the time no right feeling toward God was 
impressed, yet the memory of Michael’s patient 
watching, his love, and his prayers, had formed in 
the boy’s mind so strong a conviction of Michael’s 
excellence, and so entirely won his affections, that it 
was his pleasure to do whatever he thought Michael 
would approve. The parish marked the change ; and 
every one said, “ That fall has made a man of Jem.” 
To a lover of the improvement of the lower classes, 
it would have been grateful to see these two lads daily 
improving every leisure moment. Michael impressed 
on Jem’s mind this one idea, which will be best 
seen in the following conversation : “ From five 
in the morning to six in the evening, time is your- 
master’s ; from six in the evening to five in the morn- 
ing, time is your own.” 

Michael wrote a good fair hand ; he knew four 
rules of arithmetic, and all his tables perfectly ; and 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


19 


he understood something of land-measuring : he was 
anxious to impart all he knew to Jem. And as he 
had no higher principle of action, Michael used that 
which Jem could feel : “ Who knows but you may 
become a farmer yourself V ' When Jem thought on 
this, his heart always responded, Ay, who knows ? 
“ But you will not do for a farmer, unless you can 
read , write, and cipher well.” And, thus urged by his 
kind friend, instead of being the first in mischief, he 
was diligent and careful to learn the lessons given 
him from day to day. It happened that, one fine 
morning in April, Jem was in the field, and Michael, 
whose business lay another way, went to ask Jem for 
a rope he wanted. He was going out of the field, 
hopeless of finding Jem, when he heard his voice — 
“ Holla ! holla ! do you want me V' — and, looking 
whence the sound came, saw Jem sitting under a fine 
tree, learning the pence-table. 

Michael. For shame, Jem ! 

Jem. What ’s the matter ? 

Michael. Why, this is what makes the farmers 
hate learning. Boys, who forget that God sees them, 
take their masters' time to perform their own business. 

Jem. Why now, Michael, what harm ? there ' s 
Joe Fuller has been playing heads and tails in the 
field with the carter, long and long, and you make out 
as if I committed a sin because I left the cattle a 
minute to learn this table. 

Michael. That ’s your way, Jem ; you are always 
talking of others ; what ’s Joe Fuller to me or to you ? 
You are hired to work for your master ; you are well 


20 


THE HISTORY OF 


fed, decently clothed, and warmly lodged, for which 
you are required to do every part of your business 
faithfully. 

Jem. Well, and do n’t I ? 

Michael. Now tell me, Jem, should you wish your 
master to see you sitting under that tree now 1 

Jem. No, no ; I do n’t say I should. But — 

Michael. But what ? 

Jem. You ’re so mortal particular, that ’s the worst 
I know of you. 

Michael. Tell me, Jem, if your master did n’t give 
you victuals enough, what would you say 1 

Jem. Say ! why I ’d complain to the parish, as 
bound me out. 

Michael. And if you neglect your business ? 

Jem. Master may turn me off ; what do I care ? 

Michael. Jem, I’ve been deceived in you. You make 
me very unhappy. I did so hope your sickness would 
have done you good ; but your principles are just 
what they were, I see. 

Jem. Oh, if I am so very bad, I ’m not fit for such 
a godly young man as you. 

Michael took the rope and left the field without any 
reply. All his work seemed to have failed, and as he 
drew near home, he said, “ God only can change the 
human heart.” 

Farmer Moss was a single man. He had one sis- 
ter, whose husband was a rich farmer, but not so re- 
spectable as Farmer Moss. He had feeling ; but as 
soon as the tear was dry, it was over. His habits were 
bad : though he rose early, he wanted his dram to steady 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


21 


his hand : he did not drink brandy, that destructive 
liquor ; but he had his old beer and his gin-bottle. 
What at first was a cordial soon became, in his opin- 
ion, a necessary of life. Often had his faithful horse 
brought him safe home ; often had his neat and order- 
ly household watched beneath the porch of their nice 
dwelling, and heard with pleasure the sure-footed 
tread of old Gray. But the hour of sorrow came, and 
the horse could no longer protect his master. It was 
one of those fine autumnal evenings, when the fervors 
of summer seems yielding to the cold breath of winter, 
that old Finch, after leaving the Blue Boar in a state 
of careless insensibility, mounted his horse in the inn- 
yard, and said, “ Good-by, my hearty !” to a sot like 
himself. Three miles did the invaluable beast carry 
his senseless burden, over a wretched road, when, a 
tilted cart occupying the middle of the narrow way, 
the careful animal turned aside to make room : the 
senseless man had suffered the bridle to escape his 
hold ; the horse stumbled, from the depth of the rut ; 
the bridle, loose and long, entangled one leg, and the 
creature plunging to get free, his rider was thrown to 
a distance. The bridle broken, the horse ran home, 
to the terror of his wife, a daughter about sixteen, and 
a boy of twelve. The people in the cart were humane 
and discreet : the woman wrapped her shawl round 
his head, which bled profusely. The man and his 
two sons helped him into the cart : they turned round, 
and followed, as far as they could trace it, the guid- 
ance of the horse. About a mile from the place where 
the accident happened, they met the farmer’s family 


22 


THE HISTORY OF 


running distractedly. They carried him safely home : 
he was in bed, and a surgeon at his side, in half an 
hour ; it was too late ! he breathed a very deep sigh : 
looked piteously in the face of his wife ; wept to see 
her weep ; and, with that only sign of sense, expired. 
— Mrs. Finch wrote to her brother, and entreated him 
to come to her. Farmer Moss had just returned to 
the house to dinner, and was exceedingly shocked 
by the painful event. He called impatiently for Mi- 
chael, and the servants were sent to seek him in every 
direction. He was at length found, and the farmer 
beckoned him into his little parlor without speaking. 
Michael was now nineteen, a well-grown lad, steady 
as a man of five-and-twenty. The farmer looked out 
of his casement a few minutes, and then turned round. 
“ Michael,” said he, and stopped : the tears ran down 
his cheeks : “ Michael, I am very much distressed. 
I am busy at home, very busy, and my on-ly sister, as 
nice a woman as any in the country, is — just a widow. 
Her boy is a baby as you may say, and his sister but 
young.” 

Michael. What can I do, sir ? Can I go ? 

Farmer „Moss. No, no, Michael ; stay you here; I 
must go. Do you watch here. See that my men do 
their duty. 

Michael. But, sir, William’s a deal older than I; 
he knows better, he has been a long time here, sir. I 
thinks as ’t would be better to leave him in care. 

Farmer Moss. Do you do what I bid you ; keep 
your own place ; but only watch as my men do as 
they would when I ’m here. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


23 


Michael. Sir, you puts me upon hard duty : but 
you are my master ; I shall obey you. 

The farmer went ; and Michael was left in trust. 
It was Friday, and the wages were to be paid on Sun- 
day morning, and Michael had the amount given him. 
William, the servant above mentioned, had been one 
of Michael’s secret enemies, because he saw how 
faithfully he discharged every duty, and that, in order 
to keep in his master’s favor, he must be equally dili- 
gent, which, though he was far from a bad servant, 
was by no means his intention. This circumstance 
had made him shy of Michael ; and Michael had no 
wish to ingratiate himself against his will. But it 
happened about a fortnight before, William had stayed 
out and Michael let him in quietly, and made no men- 
tion of it to any one, nor noticed it even to William. 
This occurrence was greatly in Michael’s favor : it 
was, as William thought, good-natured, and kind : it 
softened him, and he was not at all offended at his 
master’s fixing on Michael to take care in his absence. 
Jem returned at the usual time to the house, and learn- 
ed from the servants that their master had gone out 
and Michael left in care. 

Jem had sorely repented of his ingratitude to Mi- 
chael, and would have given his best coat to be friends. 
But what could he say ? Pride, that first sin, prevent- 
ed his speaking ; pride made his heart rebel against 
Michael’s power. 

The evening closed in ; they all went to bed ; and 
Michael, according to his master’s private order, burnt 
a light, and was just asleep, when a slight noise waked 


24 


THE HISTORY OF 


him, and by the light of the candle he saw a figure 
glide by his bed : he jumped out, looked at the win- 
dows (well secured by iron bars), and made for the 
door, having snatched up the candle ; then turning 
the key of the door, he went to William and Jem, 
and called them to come, related what he had seen, 
and asked what they would advise ; they were all of 
opinion that it would be best to go back and examine 
the room : this they did, and, to their astonishment, 
found Robert, a very worthless boy (for whom the 
farmer was obliged to find work), whom he never 
lodged in the house, on account of his dirt and his 
dishonesty. This lad, keen in wrong, who had con- 
cluded the light only burnt because people should 
not think his master out, hoped, therefore, to have 
stolen in and out unperceived, and possess himself of 
whatever came to his hand. When he found himself 
locked in, and that he could not escape by the window, 
he was in extremity ; and when he saw Michael, Wil- 
liam, and Jem, enter, he was ready to sink ; he knelt, 
he prayed, and said, his master would hang him. 
“ And so he ought,” said Michael. “ O Lord ! O 
Lord !’* Michael : Did you ever call on that Name 
before ? “ O Lord,” was all the reply. The three lads 
withdrew to consult what must be done, having first 
locked Robert in a closet. They determined to ride 
over, by daybreak, to Farmer Newton, to consult him. 
Jem was sent ; and the farmer was at the house by 
six. They took him up to the boy, who crawled from 
the closet on his knees with his hands clasped. “ Oh, 
sir, spare me !” Farmer Newton looked at him ; “ Ay, 


MICHA.EL KEMP. 


25 


Robert, this is what I always thought you would come 
to. How often have I caught you at my henroost, at 
my apple-trees, at everything those wicked hands 
could reach ! how often I have heard you lie ! and 
how constantly I have found you in the streets, on 
Sunday, at play ! This is what I always thought you 
would come to.” And here the boy began again to 
howl, “ O Lord !” Farmer Newton said he must be 
kept a prisoner till Farmer Moss’s return, as he must 
decide on his fate ; and that they must feed him on 
bread and water. The boys all felt very much for 
Robert ; and Michael never failed to see him twice in 
every day, and to counsel him to ask God’s forgive- 
ness. It was Jem’s business to take his food to him ; 
and never boy had a more merciful jailer : many a 
slip of bacon did he put among the bread ; and on 
Friday morning, the very day the farmer was expect- 
ed, Jem came running to Michael, out of breath, and 
saying, “ Oh, what shall we do ! I cannot find Rob- 
ert !” William looked very arch, and said, “ I ’m not 
a morsel surprised ; it ’s just what I expected, and I 
should not have been surprised if the keeper and his 
prisoner had gone off together.” Jem was greatly 
enraged, and was about to declare by all that was good 
and holy, that he knew nothing of the matter, when a 
look from Michael made him red as scarlet. “ Well, 
he has escaped,” said this steady boy, “ and, provided 
he changes for the better, I really cannot be sorry ; for 
though I certainly would not have assisted him, it has 
been a very painful circumstance to me. One piece of 
advice I shall, however, take the liberty of giving you, 
3 


26 


THE HISTORY OF 


Jem — never from this day to know that boy ; it may 
involve you in misery you have little notion of.” This 
was said in the gravest and most distant manner, 
and it went to Jem’s heart. In the evening of that 
day he came to Michael, and the following conversa- 
tion took place. 

Jem. Can I speak to you, Michael 1 

Michael. Certainly, Jem. 

Jem. Are you still angry with me ? 

Michael. I certainly have not forgotten that you 
think me too godly for you ; and while the law of 
righteousness is not obeyed by you, I hope I am too 
much and too steadily resolved to do my duty to choose 
you for my friend. 

Jem. Then you have done with me ? 

Michael. I rather think you have done with me : 
you are tired of the restraints of honesty, and prefer 
loose company. 

Jem. No, indeed ; I never loved you so well in all 
the time I have known you ; but — 

Michael. But what, Jem ? 

Jem. But you have not spoken to me since master 
went. 

Michael. I think you forget. I have spoken to 
you, whenever there was need, with temper, and with- 
out resentment ; but I do not find even the Bible re- 
quiring us to pursue those who wish to avoid us. 

Jem. I am sure I never did wish that ; but I 
thought you had got grand and stately with your mas- 
ter’s setting you over us ; and I am sure you need not 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


27 


think I disliked you to govern, for I never minded that 
at all. 

Michael looked steadily on Jem. He knew this 
was not true. He had heard him talking to Cicely 
in the dairy, and in a manner which showed that the 
orders the farmer had given were offensive to his 
pride. Jem blushed as Michael looked, and Michael 
replied to that blush, “ You had better say no more ; 
you have no right to account to me for how you felt. 
This honor I never desired ; it is a post of care ; and 
as your master comes home to-day, your vexation will 
soon be at an end.” Jem was hurt, and he did not 
know what to say, Michael had always been so very 
kind to him. He went up stairs for a pair of dry 
stockings ; and as he opened his box, these words 
met his eye, which Michael had printed on the inside 
of his box, when he first recovered : “ For lo ! thou 
requirest truth in the inward parts and when he saw 
it, he thought on the two lies of which Michael’s eye 
had convicted him ; and instead of falling on his 
knees, to ask God’s forgiveness, he listened to the 
wickedness of his own heart, and the evil suggestions 
of him who goeth about as a roaring lion. He said 
thus with himself : “ I know Michael is very good ; I 
shall never be like him ; I never will be a hypocrite ; 
why should I ? After all, he is fond of government ; 
how gravely he strutted about when master was away ! 
It was — ‘ James, be sure you do not waste the hay ; 
give the cattle enough, but do not let them pull it 
down and waste it ; be sure your cattle are well 
rubbed down. James, your keys. James, have you 


28 


THE HISTORY OF 


cleaned the pigeon-hoose ? James, I have looked at 
the sty, and I fear the pigs will not thrive if you do 
not keep them cleaner. I used to scrub them when I 
lived at P. ; and everybody admired our pork.’ Scrub 
pigs, indeed ! scrub pigs ! Not I ; ’t is enough dirty 
work I have to do, without scrubbing pigs.” But 
hearing one or two persons talk loudly, Jem altered 
his manner, fearing his anger might appear ; and 
quickly putting on his stockings, he went down. His 
master was indeed arrived, and appeared very ill ; but 
he looked kind. He called all his men about him, 
and thanked each one singly for their very kind ser- 
vices in his absence ; and after looking as if he 
missed some one, said, “ Ay, Robert ; where’s Rob- 
ert ?” 

Michael. Robert has run away, sir. 

Farmer. Very good news, Michael. I’m only 
afraid he ’ll be back soon. 

Michael. I do n’t think he will, sir. 

Farmer. Well, well ; I believe no one will look 
after him ; I never shall, you may depend on ’t. 

Michael and William agreed it would be best to let 
the matter rest ; and not a word was said. The next 
day being Saturday, in the evening came the men for 
their wages. “ Well, what now ?” said Farmer Moss. 
Cicely, who was just lighting up a sconce that was 
over the old chimney in the great kitchen, turned 
round — “ Ees, ees ; new lords, new ways. This is 
Lord Michael’s way.” “ And a very excellent way, 
too,” said Farmer Moss; “and in future it shall be 
my way.” This silenced Cicely, whose spite against 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


29 


Michael arose from his stopping her as she was sing- 
ing a very indelicate song, and warning her that no 
modest girl could take pleasure in such words as 
these, and he hoped never to hear such come out of 
her mouth again. She did not see the harm, she 
said ; and she believed he wanted to turn the house 
into a Methodist meeting ; and she dare say he would 
buy the song himself, if he could see it ; ay, and sing 
it too, if he had a voice ; and she would never mind 
such boys as him, she could tell him. This volley 
of nonsense met no attention whatever ; Michael was 
out of hearing before it was half finished. Cicely 
was a very good servant, without any education, with 
a pretty face, and very bold manners. Michael had 
never liked her ; and though he saw her very indus- 
trious, he had taken care never to say more to her 
than was absolutely necessary. Once he offered to 
give her a tract to read ; she tossed it down, and 
said, “ I reads none ; I ha’ somewhat else to do 
and, with a sniff of her nose, she banged the door 
after her, and began to call her chickens. Michael 
quite despaired of doing her the slightest good, 
and therefore seldom said any word to her beyond 
what necessity required. As Cicely never could 
charge him with anything contrary to his duty, she 
began to hate him, and to indulge in private conver- 
sation with Jem, or any one who would listen. She 
even tried at Johanna, the little girl she had under 
her ; but she was very slow of comprehension, and 
as Michael had taken pains to help Johanna in her 
reading, she used to hear Cicely abuse him with won- 
3 * 


30 


THE HISTORY OF 


der, and stand staring at her with her mouth wide 
open, till Cicely could no longer contain her passion, 
and drove the frightened child out of the dairy, calling 
out, “ Why won’t you mind your business , hussy 
with her hands clenched, as if she would strike her. 
Farmer Moss, having heard the whole conversation, 
said, “ I think, Cicely, it can never be her business, 
nor yours, to speak so very ill of so very excellent a 
lad as Michael.” “Well, sir, the sooner I goes the 
better ; one roof won’t do long for Mr. Michael Kemp 
and me.” “ Very well, Cicely ; Mr. Michael Kemp, 
as you are pleased to call him, will soon be far from 
us ; perhaps you may be able to bear with his worth 
and honest goodness a few days longer.” Cicely looked 
down and walked away, and Johanna, with her mouth 
open, walked after her. Farmer Moss called Michael 
to him, and after expressing complete satisfaction with 
his services, asked him if he would be willing to serve 
the orphan and the widow. “ Sir,” said Michael, “ I 
should think it the greatest honor to serve those for 
whom God expresses such particular care : but how 
can I be of any use ?” “ You shall go to my sister ; 

I promised her I would spare you. I said, and I said 
truly, I should miss you ; but remember, Michael, I 
shall always be very happy to see you. I shall, I 
hope, remember many things which once made me 
angry. I do not wish you to go for a fortnight, as I 
musi be looking for some one to fill your place.” 
Michael was extremely pleased with the farmer’s 
speech, and hoped the present affecting circumstances 
would soften ‘his prejudices, and be the means of 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


31 


bringing him to a happy state of mind. He expressed 
a wish that he might be permitted to visit his parents 
for a couple of days. “ Certainly, certainly,” said the 
farmer, “ they must , they must want to see you and 
then, in a lower key, “ if I had such a boy, I am sure 
I should.” Mrs. Finch had opened her heart to her 
brother, and shown him the state of her affairs : “ I 
see, I see how it is, sister ; you have a very large 
bundle of fagots on your shoulders, and no one to tie 
them up. I ’ll send you a man who shall put all your 
affairs in place. I see your stable is in disorder ; 
your stacks are h alf- thatched ; your, your — ” “Yes, 
brother, I know it ; but remember, my poor husband 
is hardly cold, and till he took to drinking, never was 
a kinder husband ; and then he was so fond of the 
children.” “ Well,” said Moss, “ you are a good 
creature. God rest his soul ! I ’ll send you a man 
that shall put all things to rights :” and so they parted. 
After Moss had been at home two or three days, Far- 
mer Newton came riding into the court, and Jem, 
who was passing, took the horse. “ Is the farmer at 
home ?” “ Yes, sir.” “ Is the boy in jail ?” “ No, 

sir.” “ What does your master mean to do with 
him ?” “ He has run away.” “ Who helped him 

out of that strong closet ?” Jem did not speak out ; 
but thinking it necessary to say something, observed, 
“ It was a very strong closet, indeed, sir.” 

Moss went out to meet Farmer Newton. “ Poor 
brother-in-law’s gone to heaven, I hope.” “ Why, I 
should hope so too ; but it ’s an awkward thing to go 
to heaven in a drunken fit. And so, Farmer, your 


32 


THE HISTORY OF 


boy Robert got out of prison V* “ Prison ! did you 
say?” “Yes, I saw him very safe, did I not, Mi- 
chael?” “Yes, sir, I thought so” “What is all 
this?” said Farmer Moss: “prison!” “Yes, sir,” 
said Michael ; “ we thought you could do no good, 
and as he had escaped — and your mind was so anx- 
ious about your sister — ” The story being related, 
he concluded as before, “ I believe no one will ever 
run after him, I ’m sure I never shall.” 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


33 


CHAPTER II. 


It was on a bright October morning that Michael 
set off to see his father. Farmer Moss, that he might 
lose no time, lent him a nice little pony, and at part- 
ing gave him a small parcel in brown paper, which he 
charged him not to open till he got to P. How many 
delightful ideas occupied the heart of this good young 
man ! As he rode under the shade of the trees, he 
felt that God was his Father, and that all the beauties 
of nature were His creation : the singing of the birds 
harmonized his thoughts ; his soul was alive to the 
finest feelings of love to God and enjoyment of natu- 
ral beauty. He proceeded silently till he came to the 
toll-gate at the entrance of P. As he drew near, he 
saw his invaluable friend, Mr. Walker, who would 
have passed him had not Michael pulled off his hat, 
got down from his pony, and said, “ Sir !” with a 
voice almost choked by his feelings of delight. Mr. 
Walker stopped. “ Did you speak to me, sir ?” “ Oh, 
dear sir ” said Michael, “ do you not remember me ? 
do you not remember Michael Kemp ?” “ Oh, my 

honest Michael, I have never forgotten you ; but long 
absence has added to your growth and lengthened 
your boyish countenance, and you must excuse an 


34 


THE HISTORY OF 


old man who expected nothing so little as the pleasure 
of seeing you.” “ Oh, sir ! what do I not owe to 
you ! how can I ever repay you !” “ Keep your eye 

fixed, my good lad, keep your heart warm, by daily 
perusal of the Scriptures ; be lowly, be content to be 
despised, so that you are owned, and honored, and 
approved of God : this will give me more pleasure 
than any news you could bring me, more than any 
kind office you could perform for me.” Mr. Walker 
gave Michael his hand, and pressed his affectionately : 
“ Shall we see you to-morrow, or next day ?” “ To- 

morrow, if you please, sir.” Mr. Walker waved his 
hand and passed on. 

And now Michael came to the turning that led to 
his home. A tall girl met him, whose face he thought 
he knew : she looked at him, blushed, and passed on. 
He entered the cottage of his father, and found only a 
cradle and a little child rocking it ; and taking a chair, 
without speaking, sat down. The little girl who was 
rocking began to cry, “ Mammy, mammy ! come, 
come, here is a man.” The mother came down, and 
Michael could not refrain, but rose, and threw his 
arms round her neck : “ Oh, my dear mother !” “ Is 

it my Michael? is it?” “Yes, it is indeed; and 
where is my father ?” “ Oh ! child, sit down, he ’ll 

be in presently.” “ And Joseph and little Jane ? and 
where is Fanny?” “Why Fanny is just gone up 
the lane — oh ! what a pleasure it is to me, my dear 
boy, to see you once more.” Michael now thought 
on the little parcel his master had given him ; and 
when he opened it, he found a shawl for his mother 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


35 


and a red silk handkerchief for his father, and two 
one-pound notes, folded in a piece of paper and written 
on the outside, “ For the parents of my honest ser- 
vant, Michael Kemp.” “ Oh !” said his mother, “ this 
is a gift, indeed !” and running up stairs, she knelt 
down, and thanked God, who had given her such a 
friend ; and, above all, who had kept her child from 
sin, and given him favor in the sight of his master. 
Michael knew how his mother was employed, and 
their joint thanksgivings ascended together. 

Before his mother came down, his father returned : 
he hung up his hat, and Michael looked at him with 
honest affection ; but his father not expecting him, 
rather wondered to see so decent a lad sitting there, 
and his wife up stairs. “ A fine day,” said Joseph. 
“ Yes, sir,” said Michael. His father sat down and 
leaned his head on his hand, little inclined to talk. 
“ Is that your pony, sir,” said he, “ that hangs to our 
rail ?” “ O dear, yes : pray, father, where had I best 

put him up ?” “ Father !” “ O yes : why don’t you 

know me V 9 “ Can it be our boy Michael ?” “ I am, 
indeed, your own boy Michael, my dear father — ” 
“ Good honest boy, ’t is long since ye ’ve been here 
and the fond parent looked steadily out at the win- 
dow, to hide the emotions he could not stifle. “ I 
think, lad, thee shouldst put up at the Lion ; the 
landlady was good to your mother when John was 
born.” 

Michael took the bridle and led his horse to the 
Lion. As he went up the yard, Mrs. Potter bustled 
out at the passage-door : “ Sir, I am afeard as our 


36 


THE HISTORY OF 


hostler ’s out — ” “ Oh, I will see after him myself, 

Mrs. Potter, for I am at my father’s, just by.” “ In- 
deed, sir !” “ Yes, I am at Joseph Kemp’s.” “ Oh, 

sir — indeed, sir ! — ” (eying him from head to foot). 
He went on, but Mrs. Potter resolved to wait his re- 
turn : “ Pray, may I ask is your name Michael Kemp?” 
“Yes, madam, my name is Michael Kemp: I am 
come to see my father and mother, my master has 
been so very kind as to lend me his horse : and I am 
much obliged to you, madam, for your kindness to my 
mother.” “ Ay, poor body ! I did what I could, and 
I ’m very glad she has got so stout.” Michael made 
his bow, and Mrs. Potter nodded familiarly, when she 
found that the uncommon good-looking young gentle- 
man, who brought his horse to their stable, was only 
a poor boy as one may say. Michael always thought 
himself a poor boy, so this change of manner did not 
hurt him. He went back to his father and mother: 
and Elizabeth Kemp, that she might have her dear 
child quiet to herself, laid her cloth in a neat upper 
room, where her children slept ; and the whole fami- 
ly, once collected, had much to say. 

“ And so, Michael, you are got too grand to speak 
to Fanny, she says.” “Oh, where is she, my dear 
father ? I do so long to see her.” “ She is only in 
the next room, smartening up a bit : these foolish girls 
think they must be loved the better for fine clothes. 
Madam Walker has given her a very nice cotton 
gown, bran new, and she must needs put it on.” 
Fanny was soon dressed, and soon in her brother’s 
“ My own Michael !” “ My own Fanny !” 


arms. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


37 


ct How you are altered, and how you are grown ! 
Well, I hope you are come to stay a long time.” 
“ Oh, no, my dear sister, only to-day and to-morrow ; 
I have promised my master to be at home on Thurs- 
day.” They all looked sorry, but no one spoke a 
word of persuasion : it was his duty to return ; and, 
“ servants, obey your masters,” was a reply in every 
one’s mind. 

The hours flew, and would fly ; and next morning 
Michael went to the Rectory. The rector was in his 
study : Michael was shown in. Mr. W. took off his 
spectacles, wiped them with his glove, walked toward 
Michael, and, half-bowing, said, “ It gives me great 
pleasure, young man, to find the character you bear 
so respectable ; that you have not disappointed the 
pleasing hopes I have ever entertained concerning 
you. A particular friend of mine has informed me 
of your decent and Christian conduct ; and I trust you 
find the fulfilment of the promise — ‘ They that fear 
the Lord shall want no manner of thing that is good.’ ” 
Michael bowed : he was so happy to hear that Mr. 
Walker approved him, and his heart was so full, that 
he could only bow, he could not speak. They both 
waited a little : and when calm was restored, Mr. 
Walker said, “ Sit down, young man. Are you in a 
Christian family ?” — “ I think not : my master is very 
kind to me, sir.” — “Well, that is good, kindness is 
a great thing. Is he prejudiced against religious peo- 
ple ?” — “I never heard him say much. He was not 
at all pleased with me at first.” Here Michael re- 
lated all that had passed : Jem’s illness, &c. “ I am 

4 


38 


THE HISTORY OF 


very much pleased you did not come away : a cross 
well carried is a blessing in the end. I hope, my 
young friend, you have the presence of God.” — “ Sir, 
I have that sunshine in my soul as I can never de- 
scribe ! Oh ! how long it is since I have heard such 
a question as that !” 

Mr. W. Then you have no religious friend to 
speak to ? 

Michael. No, sir. 

Mr. W. This must be a great trial to you. 

Michael. I believe, sir, it is best for me. 

Mr. W. How so 1 

Michael. I think, sir, God has led me through the 
wilderness to humble and to prove me, and to show 
me what is in my heart. Perhaps if I could have 
talked, as you have given me such good instruction, 
I might have been puffed up : but my religion has 
not made me acceptable, sir, where I live, but it has 
kept me honest and moral. I should have been bet- 
ter approved at first if I had not read my Bible so 
much. But, for the last year, I have often seen my 
master look over a chapter, though if he saw me he 
would cough and hem, and ask some indifferent ques- 
tions about the cattle or the farm ; so I never pre- 
tended to see it, though I often pray in my heart that 
some Scripture might strike him : for the word of God 
is quick and powerful, I know. 

Mr. W. Have you a moral clergyman ? 

Michael. Yes, sir ; but he preaches above us. I 
really believe no one in the congregation can under- 
stand him ; but many say, he is very fine. He some- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


39 


times talks of the stars, sometimes tells us of the phi- 
losophers, and many other things 1 cannot remember ; 
and once, when a very clear, plain preacher came to 
preach a charity -sermon, and said, in the course of it, 
if a little child was to scatter the bread which its 
father gave it to little hungry birds, and to deny itself, 
how pleased would the parent be with its kindness 
and self-denial : how much more will the Father 
which is in heaven approve and reward such as deny 
self, to scatter to their fellow-creatures the bounties 
of his providence : I was very much contented with 
this sermon ; but when I came home, the first word I 
heard was, “ William, didst thee ever hear such a ser- 
mon, about bread, and little children, and the birds V 9 
— “ No, sir,” said William, “I can’t say as ever I 
did.” The farmer replied, “ I thinks ’t is mighty silly 
to tell of the little children and the birds.” — “ Lauk, 
sir, I think so too ; we knows about that, I thinks, 
pretty nigh as well as the parson : people need not 
go to the ’Varsity to learn that.” 

Mr. W. Such is the ignorance of most men, that 
they do not consider plainness of speech a necessary 
qualification in a country-clergyman, but sit still the 
half-hour, gaping at what they cannot understand ; 
some sleeping, some looking about ; and far the greater 
part come home as wise and as little changed as they 
went out. 

Michael. It is very true, sir. 

Mr. W. It has been my study, ever since I came 
into the country, to speak so that farmers might clear- 
ly understand me. I hope it is not vanity to say, I 


40 


THE HISTORY OF 


am a scholar ; but to win a soul to God is of such 
infinite ’importance, that the mere display of human 
learning ought never to be a primary object with the 
clergy ; though, my young friend, learning, which 
helps to throw light on the word of God, is certainly 
of great importance. 

Michael. I hope, sir, you will excuse my boldness 
in speaking of myself, but I have reason to be very 
thankful that you did speak plain : 1 could always 
understand you, and I came home every Sunday night 
with something new to guide me, and to do me good. 

Mrs. W. tapped at the study-door. “ Walk in,” 
said Mr. W. “ Well, Mr. Michael, I ’m glad to see 
you : there is such pleasure in seeing you young boys 
getting on respectably, that I cannot help coming in 
expressly to look at you, and to invite you into the 
library to see the young folks, for whom you have so 
often picked blackberries. They have never forgot- 
ten your kindness. How long do you stay at P. ?” 

Michael. I must go early to-morrow, madam. 

Mr. and Mrs. Walker led the way to the library ; 
and Michael waited respectfully till Mrs. W. said, 
“ Sophia, that is our good boy, Michael Kemp, who 
used to help sweep the path to church : we must call 
him Mr. Michael, I think, he is so grown.” 

Michael. Oh, no, madam ; I hope never to be any- 
thing but Michael with you. 

Miss Sophia said, she was very happy to see him 
looking so well, and Master Edmund (a very elegant 
young lad) assured him he could never forget the 
many civilities and kindnesses he had received from 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


41 


him. A tray with cold meats was set, but Michael 
could not be prevailed on to eat in their presence : he 
withdrew amid the good wishes, prayers, and smiles 
of Mr. and Mrs. Walker and their young family. Af- 
ter he was gone, Mr. W. observed to his wife, what a 
change true religion makes in the appearance and 
manners : that young man could not have behaved 
with greater propriety had he received a very supe- 
rior education. 

Thursday morning came ; and as Michael took his 
horse from the Lion stables, Mr. Walker’s footman 
delivered a parcel : it contained a Bible and Testa- 
ment, small and neatly bound, a present from Mr. 
Walker ; Olney Hymns, from Mrs. Walker ; Pilgrim’s 
Progress, from Miss Sophia ; and a volume of his 
father’s sermons, from Master Edmund. The good 
boy could scarcely repress his tears, from the grati- 
tude he felt ; he offered his duty to Mr. Walker and 
his grateful thanks. When the servant was gone, he 
turned to Mrs. Potter and begged she would tell him 
what he could do to serve her in any way, and as- 
sured her of his gratitude for past kindnesses. She 
said, “As for poor boys, she did not see how they 
could serve her ; and when you have paid for the keep 
of your horse, Michael Kemp, I fancy you may n’t 
have much to give to the landlady at the Lion.” Mi- 
chael was hurt, for two reasons : Mrs. Potter was 
offended at what he had intended as a mark of his 
gratitude ; and she had certainly taken more liquor 
than was good for her. He was grieved ; and after 
paying seven shillings and sixpence, which was half- 
4 * 


42 


THE HISTORY OF 


a-crown more than he expected, for the keep of Iris 
horse, he went once more to the humble dwelling of 
his father and family, to beg they would never go to 
the Lion for any assistance, as he did not like Mrs. 
Potter ; above all, whatever they might think it right 
to send for, never to let Fanny go : and then he asked 
what she had done that was so very kind. The moth- 
er looked at the father, and the father at the mother, 
and seemed to hesitate ; and then the mother said, 
“ My dear Michael, she lent me five shillings : I 
paid her yesterday, my love, out of the money you 
brought.” — “ My dear mother, never do borrow again 
of anybody but me.” And giving his horse to his 
father, he ran back to the Rectory and begged a mo- 
ment’s conversation with Mr. Walker. “ Will you, 
sir, excuse the liberty I take ? but I have been rather 
uneasy about my parents : they borrowed five shil- 
lings of Mrs. Potter, at the Lion, when my brother 
John was born. My mother has paid it, but I do not 
quite like the looks of Mrs. Potter ; and I should be 
glad, if they are ever in want, if you would lend 
them a trifle, and I shall pay you with a most grate- 
ful heart.” — “ My good young man, you may depend 
upon me.” — “I know, sir, why my mother could not 
ask you : you have always been so very kind, that 
she thought it would look like begging.” Once more 
Michael bowed to Mr. Walker, and returned to his 
parents : and now the parting moment came, and the 
poor lad looked through his tears at nature’s beauties 
for the first five miles of his journey. 

It was eight o’clock in the evening when Michael 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


43 


Kemp reached his master’s house : every one seemed 
glad to see him ; even Cicely was civil, and Jem was 
honestly delighted. The farmer, who came in from 
his neighbor, Farmer Newton’s, said “Well, lad, I’m 
glad to see thee home.” Michael presented his 
mother’s duty, and his father’s duty, and their grateful 
thanks. It was one part of this good lad’s character, 
that he had a very quick sense of obligation, and every 
favor was felt deeply, and never forgotten ; and his 
master’s presents to his parents had greatly endeared 
his master to him : indeed, all his late conduct had 
been so very kind, that he could not think of leaving 
him without real sorrow. 

While he was in the yard cleaning his bridle and 
saddle, ere he put them in the saddle-house, Jem be- 
ing in the dairy, helping to churn, he heard Cicely 
say, “ Well, Jem, do you know how long my lord is 
to stay here ?” “ No, indeed, not I, Cicely.” “ Do 

you know, Jem, I heard him praying last night : and 
I heard un say as he wished for favor in the eyes.” 
“ Favor in the eyes, favor in the eyes, Cicely : what 
do you mean ?” “ I ’m sure I do n’t know, but that ’s 

what I heard him say. — It ’s my belief, Jem, you ’re 
afraid of Michael.” “ Not I, indeed ! but I must say, 
he did nurse me so kindly, and so well, that I cannot 
quite forget it : and though he is masterly, and takes 
on him, I cannot help liking him.” “Well, for my 
part, I never did like him, and I believe as master ’s 
greatly deceived in him, and so I shall tell master if 
he affronts me again.” Jem. “ What can you say 
against him ? nothing true, I ’m sure ; and I ’ll stand 


44 


THE HISTORY OF 


up for him before king and country : ’t would be a fine 
thing for thee, girl, if thou wert half as good, if thou 
wert half as good, half as good, as good, as good” 
(singing loud and strong). Michael heard Cicely 
abusing Jem, who only laughed, and went on singing 
“ half as good,” till Cicely was ready to beat him : at 
last, out ran Jem, and Cicely after him, he laughing, 
and screaming with passion. Michael drew off, put 
by the saddle, and went to his ordinary work. In the 
evening, when all the servants were at supper in the 
hall, and the farmer taking his ale by the fire, Mi- 
chael rose and said, “ Sir, I believe Cicely has some- 
thing she wishes to communicate to you respecting me ; 
and as it is your intention to confide to me the inter- 
est of your sister’s children, ere I quit this place I 
should be glad all my conduct should be examined 
before witnesses. Cicely, whatever you know of me 
speak now.” Cicely tossed her head, and said she 
did n’t know as she should. The farmer said, “ If you 
pay any attention, Michael, to that stupid girl, you are 
to blame ; I do not mean to keep her, because I know 
her. I ’ll protect you against her tongue, depend on 
me. And I advise you, Cicely, to take care how you 
give away my butter to your own family ; for if I ever 
catch you again, as I did last Tuesday, stopping a full 
hour at the end of the green lane, I ’ll carry the law to 
the extent against you : for this once I pass it by, on 
one condition, that you ask pardon of that honest lad 
for all your lies.” Cicely muttered a reluctant request, 
and Michael sat down. The girl’s passion was so 
strong, that she screamed, and fell on the floor in 
an hysteric fit : the farmer ordered Jem and Wil- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


45 


liam to place her quietly in her own room, and leave 
her till her fury should cool. Michael was perpetu- 
ally listening at the foot of the stairs ; and hearing no 
sound, he begged his master would let Johanna go 
and see how she was : the poor girl came down, and 
said, Cicely was gone to bed, and seemed very well. 
The men all laughed, and the house rested for the night. 

On the following Sunday, after church, Jem being 
smartly dressed, with his posy in his button-hole, and 
a little switch in his hand, stood cutting off the heads 
of nettles, poised on one leg as though he was wait- 
ing for somebody. Michael looked round, and was 
walking home, when the thought struck him that he 
would ask Jem to give him his company that evening ; 
so, turning to Jem, he said, “ Will you give me your 
company this evening ? I go on Thursday ; and I shall 
have very little time, after this day, to speak to you.” 
James was rather at a loss, for he had promised to go 
and spend the evening at a place where a number of 
silly boys and girls met on a Sunday, and Michael 
had often advised him not to go. He could not refuse 
him this request ; and coloring very high, he said, 
“ Oh, yes, yes, certainly so he ran up to a tawdry 
girl, of no very good character, saying, “ Sally, do 
you tell Mrs. Priddle I can’t come to-day.” — “ And 
why not ?” — “ Oh, I can't.” — “ What, I suppose you 
and Mr. Michael be going to sing a stave together in 
the stable and she ran off, tossing a broken old 
feather about in her ragged bonnet, and laughing. 
“ Sing away, Jem ; you’ll never sing younger.” Jem’s 
passion was rising, and had not Michael been there, 
the oath in his heart would have escaped him. 


46 


THE HISTORY OF 


Michael. I hope, Jem, you are not really hurt at 
that very foolish shabby-looking girl, with whom I 
think you would be ashamed to walk : her dirty hands 
peep through those ragged old gloves. 

James was rather relieved by Michael’s description 
of Sally, and was glad he had not gone with her ; and 
joining Michael, they walked together to the fish- 
ponds, under the double row of elms which led to the 
untenanted rectory. They enjoyed the cool yet pleas- 
ant breeze. Michael’s first object was to express the 
real regard he felt for Jem, and then to engage him 
upon more important subjects. 

Michael. We have lived together four years, I 
think, Jem ? 

Jem. Yes, four years last Lady-day, I think. 

Michael. On Thursday I leave : I hope you won’t 
forget me. 

Jem. No, no ; that I never shall ! ’t would be 
strange, indeed, as I should ; you have been kinder 
to me than anybody, except my poor old grand- 
mother. 

Michael. Where did your grandmother live ? 

Jem. Why, bless your heart, she lived just by that 
knot of trees there, where Judd, the carpenter, lives 
now. She was as clean a body, and as decent to 
look to : she would not have let me out at the door 
without hat and handkerchief ; and “ Pick your way, 
boy,” was the last word out, and “ Rub your shoes,” 
was the first word in ; so that I never knew what it 
was to be dirty, while grandmother lived. 

Michael. Do you think she would have approved 
of your walking with Sally. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


47 


Jem. Oh, no ; I ’m sure she would have been quite 
sorry to have seen me with such a girl as that. She 
always went to see Madam Lascelles every sacrament 
Sunday, and madam used to talk as free. 

Michael. Who was Madam Lascelles ? 

Jem. Why, she was the rector’s wife, and as grand 
an old lady as ever I seed. I remember her very 
well ; she gave me the prayer-book I showed you. 

Michael. How long has she been dead ? 

Jem. Why, I lived a year at Farmer Newton’s, 
and then I went to live at the Grange, and there 1 
had the fever, and was bad a long time in the hospi- 
tal ; and when I got well, I came here. I came here 
a year before you. 

Michael. Well, then, I suppose your grandmother 
might be alive three years after Mrs. Lascelles died. 

Jem. I suppose she might. I remember hearing 
her say as ’t was a shame a boy ten years old could 
not read, and read well too. I remember madam’s 
funeral ; ’twas very grand ; I had a fine dinner that 
day, and all the poor had five shillings a-piece. There 
was all her family there : there was Colonel Las- 
celles, and madam’s son ; there was Sir James Wins- 
low, and seven of madam’s little grandchildren ; there 
were four coaches, all black, beside the hearse ; and 
there were yellow and green coaches, and two brown 
dftes, all shut up — nobody in ’em. I thought they 
weifc shut up because the people inside were crying ; 
but there was nobody there. All the village cried ; 
because madam . used to walk about and do a power 
of good ; and I have heard the people say she was 
main rich, and as her father was quite a lord ; but 
I ’m sure I do n’t know. 


48 


THE HISTORY OF 


Michael. Your poor grandmother must have been 
very sorry. 

Jem. Sorry indeed she was. She went up to the 
burying, and took me with her ; and when it was over, 
she went away, and I heard her say, “ Oh, my best 
friend !” But, Michael, I never shall forget a tall 
gray-headed gentleman who came up to the grave. 
He had on a black cloak ; he was very handsome. 
He looked into the grave, and said, “ Best of women!” 
and then he took his handkerchief and hid his face, 
and got into the green coach, and went quite away. 
Dr. Lascelles never preached after madam died ; he 
only lived a little while, and that house has been shut 
up ever since. 

Michael. Can you tell me ; did our master like 
Mrs. Lascelles ? 

Jem . I don’t justly know, for my grandmother 
never talked about anybody ; but I have heard master 
say that the poor have given him more trouble since 
Madam Lascelles’s death, than ever he had before. 

Michael. Have you heard your master say so 
lately 1 

Jem. Why, no. Master seems to have got a feel- 
ing of late. I heard the people say as master was got 
good — so good as they thought he could not live ; 
but I thinks master ’s very kind, and I never thinks 
he ’ll die any the more for that. 

Michael. You are right. If a happy change has 
taken place in our master, there is no doubt but he 
may be spared, and he may become a real blessing to 
this village. 

By this time they had strayed to the coach-gates 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


49 


of the nice old rectory ; and while they stood, Jem 
said — “ Michael, should you like to see the old 
place ?” 

Michael. I really should. 

Jem. Oh, then, I will run to my uncle’s, the clerk ; 
and I am sure he would let you have the key. He 
rents the garden of Dr. Collis, and ’t is a very good 
thing for him ; and my aunt just comes in summer 
and opens the windows to keep things aired ; but they 
as remembers when things were in prime order, says 
as ’t is very melancholy to see it. I have heard my 
grandmother talk of the beautiful library, and how one 
of the windows of Madam Lascelles’s dressing-room 
was covered with a beautiful myrtle, always matted 
up all the winter. 

Jem ran off to ask his uncle for the key ; and 
Michael went into a little arbor, took out his Bible, 
and was reading that beautiful portion of the Scrip- 
tures, the 91st Psalm. Michael was thinking over 
his own conduct. It was Sunday ; he had stopped 
Jem from going out, because he wanted to talk with 
him ; and how had he talked ? There was nothing 
wrong, it was true ; but what had either of them 
gained ? And then he had sent Jem to fetch the key 
of the rectory, and to Michael’s tender conscience it 
seemed at best an idle way of spending a sabbath 
evening. While he thus examined himself, he 
thought he heard some one call him ; and looking up, 
saw a gentleman who addressed him — “ Pray, young 
man, can you tell me if there is any house in this 
village where I could get a bed ? Particular circum- 
stances call me into this neighborhood. I have been 
5 


50 


THE HISTORY OF 


to see a dying friend ; and here I linger, for here I 
had once a most beloved relative — now, alas ! no 
more. Do you know any place where I could sleep V 9 
Michael was so struck with the look, voice, and man- 
ner of the stranger, that he for a while forgot to an- 
swer. At length he said, “ Sir, my master would, I 
doubt not, be very willing to offer you a bed. I know 
there is no place in this village fit for such a gentle- 
man ; but I will run home, if you please, and inform 
my master.” “ May I ask you, young man, what 
brought you to rest in this spot V 9 Michael frankly 
related facts, and closed saying, “ Indeed, sir, I am 
sure I am wrong in thinking of going over this house 
to night, from no better a motive than idle curiosity.” 
The stranger looked benevolently, but made no reply. 

Michael ran home to his master, who instantly an- 
swered the request in the affirmative, put on his hat, 
and walked to the rectory. There he found Jem, 
with the key of the house, looking this way and that, 
to find Michael. 

Moss. Well, Jem, what do you want ? 

Jem. Nothing, sir. 

Moss. Who are you looking after ? 

Jem. Nobody, sir. 

Moss. What are you doing with those keys ? 

Jem. Nothing, sir. 

The stranger turned to the farmer : “ I believe, sir, 
I can tell you what that lad seems at a loss to explain. 
He is looking for a very pleasing young man who has 
just run home to get me a bed, and he brought those 
keys to show him the house.” Jem looked astonished 
and ashamed. The stranger turned toward him — 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


51 


“ Truth is so lovely , young man, and so respectable, 
that I hope you will remember the advice I give you : 
never depart from it, be the consequences ever so much 
to be dreaded. He who requires it in the inward 
parts, will, if you obey His command, 1 make you to 
understand wisdom secretly.’ ” Then addressing Far- 
mer Moss, “ I presume, sir, you are the master of 
these lads ?” “ Y es, sir,” said Moss, taking off his 

hat ; “ and I came here, sir, to beg you will do me 
the honor to accept a Jbed at my house.” “ I am 
greatly obliged, sir, and shall certainly accept your 
offer ; I am later than I intended. Perhaps you may 
remember me V ’ The farmer looked. “ If not, you 
certainly do remember my dear mother, the wife of 
your late rector.” “Madam Lascelles. sir 1” “Yes.” 
“ Oh, who can forget her ?” “ Well, sir, at the time 

of my father’s death, I preferred the army ; and my 
uncle, in whose gift this preferment w r as, gave it to 
the late Dr. Collis, who is just gone.” The farmer 
started : “ Dr. Collis, sir V* “ Yes ; I have just left 
his house masterless, and his respectable family of 
sisters and servants drowned in tears. I came to 
look at the old spot, and I purpose to reside here. I 
have occupied a small vicarage as curate to a friend ; 
and now return to the place where I drew my first 
breath. Such are mortal changes !” ' 

By this time they reached the farm. Tea was 
offered and accepted, and all the civilities Moss could 
think of. Mr. Lascelles sat down, and took a book 
from his pocket, while the farmer opened his great 
family Bible ; and Michael, with Jem, sat quietly in 
the bed-room : they were both full of the praises of. 


52 


THE HISTORY OF 


the new rector, and Jem thought him a very grand- 
looking man, and like Madam Lascelles. Michael 
added, “ He appears to me a good man.” 

Jem. Y-e-s, 1 th-in-ks he is. 

Michael. Now, Jem, I want you to promise me 
three things. 

Jem. Which be they ? 

Michael. Come, Jem, let ’s have no jesting with 
things serious. 

Jem. What am I to promise ? 

Michael. First, never to know Robert ; next, never 
to be intimate with Cicely ; and, last, never to under- 
take anything of importance without prayer : will you 
promise me ? 

Jem. I think I could promise never to know Rob- 
ert ; only, poor thing ! he ha’ n’t got no friends, and 
’t would look proud if I wa’ n 7 t to know him. As for 
Cicely, I am sure I do n’t care for her ; she is a pas- 
sionate woman, I never minds what she says : I thinks 
as I could promise that. But then, about praying, why 
’t is a thing I was never particular fond of, and I am 
new to ’t as it were : I would not like to promise and 
not to keep to ’t. 

Michael. I like your care, Jem ; sincerity is in- 
deed an excellent virtue. But I will give you my 
reason for asking these promises. First, I think you 
do not always speak the truth ; and Robert is a sad 
liar, and he is a thief too ; and if he should get you 
into, any scrape, you might suffer more than you are 
aware of by keeping such company : and as for Cice- 
ly, you heard what your master charged her with. 

Jem. Yes, I did ; and ’t was no news to me, I can 
tell you. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


53 


Michael. I hope you will never keep any secrets, 
to the injury of your master. 

Jem. Why, as for that, if I promised to keep a 
secret, ’t is not the ’quisition as should get that out of 
me : no, I never makes mischief. 

Michael. But you help to do it, if you do not ex- 
pose robbery when you know it ; you are guilty your- 
self, and may one day be hanged for it. 

Jem. La, la, Michael, do you want me to turn in- 
former ? 

Michael. Suppose those travelling gipsies we 
watch for was to carry off a whole brood of fine chick- 
ens, if you knew where they were, should you think 
it making mischief to tell your master ? 

Jem. I ? no, I should not. 

Michael. Suppose your master was to take one 
into his house and give him a good bed to sleep on, 
and pay him reasonable wages, and he was to give the 
eggs to his gang — 

Jem. Well, suppose he did ? 

Michael. Should you think it wrong to tell your 
master ? 

Jem. Not I, indeed. 

Michael. Why ? 

Jem. Because, if master had taken him in, he ought 
to be more obliged and more careful. 

Michael. Certainly : and pray ought not Cicely ? 

Jem. Dear, what a roundabout way you comes 
over me ! 

Michael. Now I ’ll tell you, Jem, the secret of 
Cicely’s dislike to me. She wastes a great deal in 
this house : she is clean, but she is always in a hurry 


54 


THE HISTORY OT 


to get. work over ; she puts her salt in a damp tub ; 
she leaves it in the dairy while she throws the water 
down ; she should move it : when she makes her but- 
ter, she never shuts her churn close, which wastes a 
great deal of cream ; and, to save trouble the cooked 
meat is kept in the dairy, so that our cream turns 
sooner than any in the parish. I think Cicely might 
be a very excellent servant if she did by her master 
as she would wish her master to do by her. Our 
Savior gave us excellent rules, James. 

Jem. O, I dare say he did. 

Michael. I hope you know he did ? 

Jem. Why, as to that, you know I never professes 
to be so over-religious. 

Michael felt the conversation getting very unprofit- 
able, and said — “ Well, here ’s my hymn-book ; per- 
haps you would like to read a bit, or shall 1 read to 
you ?” Jem, who was quite tired out, gaped so wide 
as to show the whole double row of a good set of teeth, 
and yawned out, “ Just as you like.” Michael read — 
“ How shall the young secure their hearts,’’ &c. They 
were reading the third verse, when William said, 
master had ordered all the servants into the great hall ; 
the carter was there and Johanna, but they could not 
find Cicely ; and Jem and Michael must come directly. 

It is necessary to inform the reader that when Mi- 
chael and Jem were conversing together, and Mr. 
Lascelles and the farmer sitting peaceably by the fire x 
Cicely set off for Mrs. Priddel’s. Mr. Lascelles at 
length put his book in his pocket, and turning to Far- 
mer Moss, said, “ It is eight o’clock, sir ; will it be con- 
venient to you to call your family together ?” “ My 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


55 


family, sir ? I’ma lone man, sir ; I have nobody but 
servants about me.” Mr. Lascelles smiled : “ I beg 
your pardon, but perhaps you do not understand me : 
in calling your family together, I mean to assemble your 
servants for evening worship ; I shall be happy to lead, 
if you will allow me.” The farmer bowed, and open- 
ing the great door, seeing Johanna, said, “ Wench, go 
call Michael, William, Jem, and John the carter, into 
the hall ; and, d’ ye hear, bring the long bench out of 
the back passage.” Johanna did as she was ordered, 
and seeing William sitting on an old hen-coop in the 
yard, sent him to find the boys. W r hen they came in, 
Mr. Lascelles was standing with his back to the fire, 
and Farmer Moss was looking through a little corner 
window over the moor, where there was a fine flock of 
sheep feeding, and the moon had risen on the landscape 
in majestic beauty. The people were standing, and 
the farmer looked round and seemed quite ashamed 
of what he was going about. Mr. Lascelles, however, 
warm with the impression of the Scripture he had just 
read, said to Michael, “ Young man, fetch me the 
small table and the Bible :” then he pulled out his 
prayer-book and found the Psalms for the evening ser- 
vice, and then the 1 1th of St. John, the raising of Laz- 
arus : he said, he was particularly led to that chapter, 
as the death of a person so long known to his family 
had sensibly impressed him. The power and love of 
the divine and human nature were pre-eminently dis- 
played in the actions which this chapter records. He 
then read it with a clear tone and very grave manner : 
he closed the volume, and read that beautiful prayer 
which closes our burial service, and adding the bene- 


56 


THE HISTORY OF 


diction, they rose reverently. Mr. Lascelles convers- 
ed cheerfully for a few minutes ; but he saw the far- 
mer was uneasy, and he sat a short time silent : Moss 
went to the door and called Johanna ; the girl came — 
“ Where is Cicely ?” “ I do n’t know, sir.” “ I have 
a mind to turn that girl out of the house this very 
night ; I ’m sorry, sir, you should be kept waiting for 
your supper.” Though Mr. Lascelles seldom took 
supper, he thought he would avail himself of the pres- 
ent circumstances to make the farmer feel the conve- 
nience, as well as the duty of family worship. At last 
Moss said to the girl, “ Can ’t you boil a chicken V* 
“ I dare say I could, sir.” Jem said, he could lay the 
cloth ; and in the meantime Michael slipped out, and 
went to Mrs. Priddel’s, in order to see if Cicely was 
there, and to get her home. That text was strongly 
in his mind, “ Be not overcome of evil, but overcome 
evil with good.” He saw, to his serious concern, a 
large party of young men and women, smoking and 
drinking ; peals of laughter rent the air : two young 
men, who stood lounging at the door, stared at Michael, 
who asked them if Cicely Jones was within doors. 
“ Go look,” said one ; and the other vociferated, 
“ Cicely Jones, here ’s a gentleman ’quiring after you •” 
they then burst into a roar of laughter. Michael de- 
termined to walk from the place, if she did not come 
out immediately : however, curiosity brought her out, 
and her surprise was great indeed when she saw Mi- 
chael. He told her his master was angry, and that 
he ran to hasten her home : she gave him a very re- 
luctant thank ’ee, and ran home as fast as she could, 
leaving Michael far behind her. When she got in, 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


57 


finding poor Johanna rather in a fuss, she forgot her 
own transgression, and began to question and abuse, 
with the careless confidence of a faultless person. 
“ Who told you to put on that sauce-pan, hussy 1” 
“ My master told me, Cicely, to try to cook a fowl.” 
“ You cook a fowl, you !” “ I am sure, Cicely, I did 

not want to do it : master ordered me.” Jem came 
out : as soon as he saw Cicely he made a low bow : 
“ I hope you have had a very agreeable visit. Pray, 
madam, what can I do to serve you ? I have laid the 
cloth : shall I put by your ladyship’s bonnet ?” Mi- 
chael, seeing the girl’s passion rising, called him, 
“ Pray, Jem, let her alone ; we must keep things still 
to-night : if she was to go off into one of her passions, 
it would provoke master, and make that gentleman 
wonder strangely.” Everything being arranged, the 
farmer passed by Cicely’s offence. The supper was 
cleared, and all quiet, when the following conversa- 
tion took place between Mr. Lascelles and the far- 
mer : — 

Mr. L. You seem to have a very nice farm here. 

Farmer. Yes, sir, ’tis good land, but it’s a strange 
deal of trouble to carry on ; and a lone man like me 
has out doors and in doors, as I may say, to attend to. 

Mr. L. You were never married, then? 

Farmer. No, sir ; my sister lived with me ten 
years after I began business, and then I had some 
thoughts of getting a wife to guide the house, and I 
fixed on Farmer Newton’s sister. Poor girl! she 
died of the small pox ; and for a pretty many years I 
could not put her out of my head ; and now I thinks 
as ’t is too late for me to rock the cradle. 


58 


THE HISTORY OF 


Mr. L. Well, sir, a single man can do more for 
the poor. 

Farmer. That is true, though I can’t say as I have 
ever had a great fancy for the poor ; none can tell, but 
they as have had to do with them, as farmers have, 
how impudent they can be. 

Mr. L. Yes, I can tell, for I have witnessed much 
of this. But, my good sir, you must always put your- 
self in a poor man’s place when you judge him. Now 
think of a person who has no religion, receiving 
merely sufficient to supply nature’s wants, living 
among persons who have every enjoyment : it is not 
in fallen nature to be satisfied with such a difference. 
If you wish the poor to be grateful, endeavor to get 
them to read the Bible, and there they will see that 
this is not their home, that they are only travellers 
through this world to everlasting rest. 

Farmer. As to reading the Bible, I don’t know as 
many of them can read. 

Mr. L. Indeed ! what have you no school in this 
large village ? I know my mother had a school of girls. 

Farmer. Yes, sir, but that is gone by ; and I must 
own as them that Madam Lascelles had taught turned 
out very decent ; but now here ’s a strange racket on 
a Sunday : and I verily believe my maid has been at 
a very rackety house down this village, where the 
young boys and girls meet on a Sunday evening. 

Mr. L. This must be noticed, sir. Do you think 
they have separated as yet 1 

Farmer. It ’s not likely, sir, 

Mr. L. ’T is not more than half-past nine ; would 
you have any objection to walk with me to the place ? 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


59 


Farmer. Not at all, sir. 

Mr. Lascelles took out his pocket-book, cut his pen- 
cil, and keeping it in his hand, set out, conversing 
very mildly with Moss. They soon reached the place. 
“ I ’m in the commission of the peace, sir,” said he, 
as they entered the door ; “ pray which is Mrs. Prid- 
del ?” Mrs. Priddel had taken so much gin, that she 
was in a very courageous state of mind, and elbowing 
her way through the nauseous crowd (some sleeping, 
some swearing), she stood in insolent defiance before 
the excellent Mr. Lascelles. “ Your name is Priddel, 
madam ?” — “ Yes, sir, my name is Hannah Priddel, 
at your service.” — “ May I ask, madam, is this a pub- 
lic house?” — “I don’t feel much of a mind to an- 
swer questions, sir.” — “ Very well, madam: let me 
see [writing], farmer, who is that poor wretch on the 
floor?” — “ That, sir, is Farmer Newton’s carter, and 
that is John Clark, and there are five maid-servants 
belonging to my neighbors, and there is my William’s 
brother, and James Newcome.” — “And pray, Mr. 
Moss,” said Mrs. Priddel, “ what business have you 
in my house ?” — “ We ’re going, madam,” said Mr. 
L. ; “ you ’ll hear from me to-morrow.” They re- 
turned home ; and he observed to Moss what a disad- 
vantage it was to a village, the non-residence of the 
clergy. No moral clergyman of the Establishment 
could suffer such gross profaneness immediately under 
his own eye. “ I know the residence of a ’squire 
has its disadvantages, bringing town servants ; but 
even that is not worse than the beastly scene we have 
just left. In the parish where I at present reside, and 
where I have some influence, I have not been able to 


CO 


THE HISTORY OF 


conquer that bad habit of Sunday company. The 
daughters come to church to show their clothes ; the 
son is frequently smoking with the company at home, 
and when he does come to church, seems hardly to 
know what part of his prayer-book to turn to. I would 
desire to encourage even the appearance of good in 
them, yet their want of reverence so distracts me, that 
I have frequently wished them away ; I believe they 
do not know as much of their duty to God as many of 
our poor children in the Sunday-school, from a foolish 
notion they imbibed early of being too genteel to learn 
with the poor children ; so that they have little knowl- 
edge of any kind ; none on religious subjects.” 

By this time they reached the farm, and separated 
for the night. A fine October morning, brilliant, clear, 
and bracing, rose on the new rector, who, after break- 
fast, asked the farmer if he might request the guidance 
of the lad whom he first met, the preceding evening : 
“ I think you called him Michael.” The farmer 
seemed to hesitate. Mr. Lascelles said, if he was 
engaged, it was not material. “ I do not exactly know 
where he is, sir ; he rises very early, and may be at 
some distant part of the farm. Cicely, go seek Mi- 
chael.” He was in the stable, taking an inventory 
of those things under his care ; and, putting up his pa- 
pers carefully, waited Mr. Lascelles’s orders. “ Mi- 
chael, this gentleman wishes you to show him the 
village.” — “ Yes, sir.” As they left the house, Mr. 
L. asked the lad to fetch the keys of the rectory ; but 
this necessity ceased, for cap in hand came the clerk, 
to know “ if he could oblige his honor, and if his hon- 
or had any commands, and if his reverence would 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


61 


please to see the church, and if his honor would see 
the house ?” bowing between every question, and leav- 
ing no space for reply. At length Mr. Lascelles said, 
“ Give me the keys of the house, and let some one 
open the church ; I should like to look at it.” Mr. L. 
smiled, and turning to Michael, said, “ You had a cu- 
riosity to see the house?” — “Yes, sir, I had.” — 
“ And I wished to have a little private conversation 
with you : I think you know Mr. Walker, of P. ?” — 
“ I do, indeed, sir : he has been the kindest friend to 
me. I am one of his poor boys ; I owe him all the 
knowledge I have of the Scriptures.” 

Mr. L. I have heard him speak of you ; I inquired 
for him of Dr. Collis concerning you, by letter, how 
your master approved your services, and was highly 
pleased to be able to send good accounts. 

Michael blushed — “I much fear, sir, you could 
not be pleased with the manner in which I was spend- 
ing yesterday evening.” 

Mr. L. I am far from thinking you were sinfully 
employed, taking a quiet walk. I know from expe- 
rience that a walk in a mild evening rather leads me 
to God than diverts me from him. 

Michael. But, sir, I feel ashamed that I should not 
fear to trifle before God, and yet seek to hide from an 
excellent earthly friend the wrong I was conscious of 
committing. 

Mr. L. My good young man, this is an infirmity 
to which we are all prone ; forgetting the eye which 
is ever upon us, and trifling in his presence, whereas 
we are very anxious to wipe every stain from our 
character in the sight of a fellow- creature. 

6 


62 


THE HISTORY OF 


Michael. What a very great comfort it is, sir, to 
have such a gentleman as you are coming down to one, 
as one may say : it gives hope in the midst of dis- 
couragement ; it comforts the wounded conscience. 

Mr. L. Keep your conscience tender, my lad ; a 
tender conscience preserves us safe. 

By this time the key was in the hall-door ; and the 
situation of the hall chairs, the old lamp, and every 
window closed, gave the impression of death to the 
scene. Michael immediately proceeded to open the 
windows, and divert the gloom of the excellent Mr. 
Lascelles. Jem truly said his aunt did keep things 
aired, but there was much wanted after nine years’ 
absence ; and the myrtle was dead which had been 
trained so carefully over Mrs. Lascelles’s dressing- 
room window ; the flowers in her nice garden were 
totally neglected ; and none but a feeling and delicate 
mind could allow for all our good rector was suffering 
at this retrospect, this step into past life, and the still 
yet faithful memorials of the furniture around. The 
house wanted much repair, and ought long since to 
have been examined ; the floor of one attic was quite 
ruined by the damp. “ This is sad negligence ; but 
it falls where it ought, I only am to blame ; Dr. Collis 
always said he could not preside ; and his curate was 
a man of family and fashion, and it could not be ex- 
pected he should. Well, I must see about gardeners, 
carpenters, and masons ; things must be put in order. 
I have a delicate wife, and two dear little girls ; and 
though I cannot help passing through these rooms 
with a sigh, when I trace again the scenes where so 
much patience was exercised, and so much goodness 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


63 


practised, yet I must strip the veil of gloom from this 
quiet resting-place, restore all its cheerfulness, and, 
as much as in me lies, bring back to this village the 
blessings my sainted parents were wont to scatter 
around them.” Michael was delighted with the con- 
descending manners of Mr. Lascelles ; and Mr. L. 
was greatly pleased with the lad’s respectful conduct. 

J It is worthy the observation of young people, that 
nothing so much recommends them to their superiors 
as respect and modesty. 

But we must leave this truly excellent divine to 
arrange his return to his native village, and follow our 
honest Michael in his farewell to a house where he 
had lived four years, and his entrance on a new scene, 
in obedience to his master, and in the hope of being 
useful to the orphan and the widow. 


64 


THE HISTORY OF 


CHAPTER III. 

It was one part of our Michael’s character, when 
he examined himself, to say, “ What are the duties 
of my station ? I am a servant, and my place is to 
take the same care of my master’s property as I would 
if it were my own : to put all tools by in their proper 
places ; to clean the harness, and not leave the bri- 
dles trailing in the stalls ; thoroughly to clean the 
stable every morning ; to see that all places are regu- 
larly shut up at night ; to speak in time about broken 
gates ; to take special care of lire ; to carry my lan- 
tern carefully, and to destroy nothing through want of 
feeling for my master ; to take care that gaps in 
hedges are noticed in time ; to watch where the hens 
lay ; to keep the wood-stack square and neat, and 
warn others to fetch the fagots regularly ; if I see 
waste, always to tell them privately, and repeat it till 
they are ashamed : if they are only careless, they will 
mind ; if dishonest, to tell my master ; to carry out 
manure in its season, cleanly and completely ; to have 
no waste of any kind ; to be careful always to put on 
my slippers when I come in to my meals, that I may 
occasion no unnecessary dirt ; and when all my busi- 
ness is done, quietly retire to reflect on that state 
where the weary rest.” 

But he was now entering on a new scene. He 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


65 


was to be servant and master. This was a compound 
which required care. He must not forget that he 
might at pleasure be deprived of the power with 
which he was intrusted : he was still a servant to his 
mistress, though a master to others. He felt the diffi- 
culties of his new state, and prayed that he might 
honorably acquit himself to man, and obediently to God, 
and kindly, faithfully, and affectionately, to his fellow- 
creatures. 

In this state of mind was Michael, when Wednes- 
day morning came, and he thought it right to seek an 
opportunity of conversing with his master on his new 
situation ; and seeing the farmer put on his hat to go 
out, he ran up to him — “Sir.” — “Well, lad.” — 
“To-day is Wednesday, sir.” — “Ay, lad, I know, 
and I am sorry ; for to-morrow is Thursday, and you 
must go.” — “Yes, sir; and if you please, I should 
be glad of a little conversation with you about what I 
am to do when I get there.” — “ That ’s a moral im- 
possibility, boy. Why, everything wants putting to 
rights : there ’s plenty without order, and everything 
seems to be going wrong for want of a master ; and 
that master you must be. 1 can say nothing to it ; 
you have behaved well here, desperate well, and I 
dare say as you ’ll manage very well there. Now, 
my lad, we must settle something, and I mean to fix 
your wages at 30/. yearly ; and my sister will be kind 
to you, I ’m sure ; she ’ll be as pleasant a mistress as 
you could wish to live with. I know very little of the 
children, but I believe Jemima is a modest young girl, 
and I suppose they *11 give the boy some learning. 
*T is a sad long way for you, forty miles in one day ; 

6 * 


66 


THE HISTORY OF 


but I think, if you take my black horse, he ’ll take 

you to , and there you can hire a hack for the 

next twenty. William shall go with you, on the 
rough pony, and he can bring back the black horse. 
I think my sister will be sure to send a man to meet 
you.” As Michael was going to bed, he walked up 
to his master, with tears in his eyes, and said, “ I 
thank you, sir, for all the kindness you have showed 
me, and I pray to God to bless you.” Here his voice 
failed : he could not speak ; and the farmer looked 
on him with evident emotion : “ God bless thee, lad. 
My love to my sister and the children.” 

Jem came up to him — Good-by, Michael; I hope 
I shall see you again. 

Michael. I hope I shall see you again, Jem ; and 
that you will not forget the advice I have given you : 
remember, it is all meant for your good. 

Jem promised nothing ; poor Johanna sobbed aloud ; 
the carter wished Michael all prosperity ; and the 
surly Cicely sniffed her nose, and asked if Mr. Mi- 
chael would please to breakfast before he went. 

Michael. What say you, William ? 

William. I am certainly for fencing out the cold ; 
for, now November’s come, I think the mornings are 
rather chill. 

Here Jem, who loved to plague Cicely, said, “ I 
think, Mrs. Cicely, your master ordered you to get a 
nice warm breakfast ready for the travellers by five, 
that they might be off in time ; but a lady, who is fitty 
like, may not perhaps be able to bear such fatigues. 
Shall I, my lady, light the fire for you ?” Cicely, tos- 
sing her head, “ I ’ll tell you what, Mr. Jem : when 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


67 


you go, I ’ll warrant I ’ll light a fire, and a bonfire too : 
you are the impertinentest boy I ever see’d.” And 
so they parted for the night. 

November mornings are seldom brilliant, but this was 
uncommonly favorable ; mild air and gentle breezes 
seemed more like the infancy of the year than its de- 
cline. Cicely was up, and poor Johanna was ready 
to offer her services. Little did Michael eat, for his 
heart was heavy. He set off as the church clock 
struck six. The moon’s decline rendered the light 
less brilliant ; but the sun rose at seven, and the light 
gildings on the top of the Malvern Hills, with gradual 
disclosure of the scene below, gave him silent pleas- 
ure, and his heart rose with his warm feelings in fer- 
vent gratitude to the God who had led him through 
childhood, and continued to guide his youth ; and that 
beautiful Psalm, “ The heavens declare the glory of 
God, and the firmament showeth his handy work,” — 
that Psalm occupied Michael’s mind, till the turnpike- 
gate reminded him of poor William, who came on 
quietly, and spoke not, till the man at the gate said, 
“ Do you pay for the man, sir ?” Michael stared, 
and asked, “ What man ?” and William rode up and 
said, “ Michael, master ordered / to pay everything 
then, and then only, did Michael remember William ; 
and drew up his horse beside him as they rode on : 
“ I beg your pardon, William.” “ Oh, Michael, I be n't 
a bit offended. I knows as you was down-hearted 
like, at leaving the old place ; and I ’ll answer for it 
we be all mighty sorry to part with you : I ’m sure 1 
am for one.” “ Thank you, William ; I hope you will 
ever remember me with regard : I can say, I have 


68 


THE HISTORY OF 


ever desired to behave kindly to you.” u And you 
have behaved kindly.” “ I desire to do right, I am 
sure ; but we are very imperfect beings, and in what- 
ever way I may have done wrong, I hope you will 
place it to my account, and not to religion.” 

William. Indeed, Michael, you have made me like 
religion a pretty deal better than I used to do. I can ’t 
say as I ever had much fancy for ’t before, but now I 
see as you does more than you says. I took notice 
as you talked to Johanna about I this morning ; will 
you tell me what that was ? 

Michael. You will know, William, when you get 
back. 

Michael had left with Johanna four small Bibles : 
one for the carter, one for William, one for Johanna, 
and one for Jem. The one for Johanna she was to 
offer to Cicely, and if she accepted it, Michael was 
to send another to Johanna ; but if she despised it, 
Johanna was to keep it. 

When William reached the place where he was to 
part with Michael, the awkward sorrow he expressed 
made a deep impression on his heart. “ Well, God 
bless ye, Michael.” “ And you too,” responded the 
traveller. “We shall hear about you when I come 
with the hops ; and mayhap you may come too.” “ I 
cannot tell. My duty to master. Pray remember me 
to all my fellow-servants.” “Yes, Michael.” “Never 
go to Mrs. Priddel’s.” “ I never will.” “ Read when 
you can.” “ I will, indeed.” And here they parted, 
and soon lost sight of each other. 

The remainder of Michael’s way was all new and 
all lovely — romantic hills ; springs gushing from their 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


69 


sides, half hidden by the luxuriant foliage ; rocky 
avenues, and peasants’ huts, with now and then a 
house of prayer civilizing the wilds. At the end of 

the seventeenth mile he entered the town of , 

and going to the Blue Boar, he was soon accosted by 
a very good-looking boy of about seventeen : “ Zur, 
be your name Measter Kemp ?” “ Yes, my name is 

Kemp.” “ Then, zur, my mistress ha’ sent for ’ees ; 
and she prays ye to take somewhat, because ye ha’ 
corned a long journey.” 

Michael. I am very much obliged to your mistress, 
but I have no need of any refreshment till I reach 
home : I had a very good dinner, and need no more. 

“ Will ye take some ale ?” “ Oh no, I thank you ; 

I am in want of nothing but a good night’s rest.” 
They went on carefully, for the evening was closing 
in ; and they both thought on the death of poor Farm- 
er Finch. As they drew near the spot, Samuel Brown 
said, “ Zur, ’t was here as we found poor measter ; he 
had n’t a bit of sense !” Michael made no reply ; but 
he lifted up his heart to God, to keep him sober and 
temperate, and prayed that he might be an example 
to those under his care, of quiet industry in his station, 
and, above all, of piety and Christian love. They 
soon reached the farm : it was under a lofty hill, and 
in front was a level plain of many acres : the house 
was large and comfortable. Mrs. Finch was, as her 
brother said, a nice woman. She was seated in a 
small room with her son and daughter : there was a 
look of composed sorrow about the latter ; and the 
mother could only weep, when she inquired after 
her brother, and when she remembered why she stood 


70 


THE HISTORY OF 


in need of such a servant. Michael delivered Moss’s 
letter to his sister who begged he would sit, saying, 
“ You must be tired, Mr. Kemp.” “ I shall be very 
glad to go to bed, if you please, ma’am.” She or- 
dered some gruel, took it up to him herself, and told 
him that the excellent character she had heard of him 
had impressed her with complete confidence in him ; 
that she should now feel as much at ease as a widow 
in her circumstances could feel ; and leaving the new 
comer to repose, soon withdrew. 

How Michael felt the following morning, may be 
best conceived by those to whom a very responsible 
situation is new. It certainly was a time of deep 
thought, and more unmixed care, than ever Michael 
had known ; and he had recourse to prayer and his 
Bible : he determined to take Joseph for his model, 
and to guard the property of his mistress with his 
most assiduous care ; and thus he said to himself, 
“ I must examine my tools before I begin to work.” 
He asked Mrs. Finch to allow him to see the servants. 
The shepherd and his boy came first : his name 
was John Clark ; his boy’s, Joseph Clark : very pleas- 
ant countenances, Michael liked them both. The fa- 
ther said, “ I hope, sir, we shall give you satisfaction.” 
Michael felt ashamed of the new importance of his 
station, but he checked himself when about to speak, 
because he saw his mistress’s success rested on his 
consequence ; therefore he replied, “ Be faithful to 
your mistress’s interest, and I shall be sure to be sat- 
isfied.” The carter, who lodged in the house, had a 
very stupid appearance — a dark bushy head, and a 
bony figure, small eyes deep sunk, a pair of very red 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


71 


cheeks, thick lips rather underhung, and an impedi- 
ment in his speech. Mrs. Finch smiled as this man 
entered : “ Williamson, this is Mr. Kemp.” “ Zu-ur-r 
zur, I-I am ready to obey — to obey your orders.” 
Mrs. Finch said, “ Mr. Kemp, this is a very honest 
fellow : he has lived here thirteen years : my poor 
husband had a very good opinion of him .” “ Miss- 

Mistress, ye be main good,” said the rough carter. 
Tom, the other carter, was with the team ; the boy, 
Charles, was gone with him, to fetch a load of coal 
from the next town. Stephen, the fellow, came in — 
a fine specimen of a British peasant : clear red and 
white, well-grown, a curled head of light hair, clean, 
and in a frock white and new, with a blue handker- 
chief round his throat, the nice collar of his shirt turned 
over ; hardly shall one see a more interesting rustic 
lad. Michael’s heart seemed to love him without 
leave, and the boy looked respectful and bowed. 
These, with the lad that came to meet Michael, made 
up the men-servants, and the two maids were very de- 
cent country-girls. Everything within doors was in 
beautiful order, but the want of a master and the con- 
fusion of circumstances had prevented what he saw 
must be his care without. 

And now Mrs. Finch desired Williamson to bring 
Mr. Kemp the horse, and to accompany him over the 
farm. There was a mill on the stream ; but it was out 
of repair, and the miller seemed not very promising : 
when Michael got off his horse, the miller turned into 
the mill-house, as if he would have said, “ Farewell to 
all my gains.” Though Michael perfectly understood 
his manner, he passed on as though he had not noticed 


72 


THE HISTORY OF 


him ; and turning to Williamson, said, “ Who manages 
here ?” “ Mason, sir.” “ Has he a family ?” “ Yes, 
sir.” “ Where do they live ?” The saucy rogue hear- 
ing these questions, came out, and feeling his anger too 
strong for his prudence, said, “ When you are master , 
Mr. What-d’ ye-call- ’em, it will be time enough to know 
where I lives. And now I ’ll tell you a piece of my 
mind : it would have been more decenter if ye had 
stayed till poor old master was clean decayed like, afore 
you had come courting mistress.” Michael’s reserve 
had almost vanished ; but he regained his composure, 
and turning to Williamson, said, “ This mill must’ be 
repaired ;” and ordered the miller to come up to the 
house in the evening. After a ride of some hours, ob- 
serving the state of gates, hedges, and ditches, the 
underwood that should be cut, and the trees which were 
to be felled, he returned to the farm.* It was six 
o’clock ; and before the honest Michael could eat his 
dinner, the impertinent miller appeared. “ The mil* 
ler wants you, ma’am.” “What do you want, Ma- 
son ?” The fellow looked half-angry, half-impertinent, 
and said, the new master ordered him. Mrs. Finch 
turned to Michael, who rose and said, “ Madam, I 
advise you to give that man a month’s warning : I 
must have servants to know their places : Williamson 
will inform you of the reason of my request.” The 
miller said, in a muttering tone, “ ’T was n’t a new 
tale, everybody knew it, and time would show.” “ Ma- 
son, you have a month before you, suit yourself,” said 
Mrs. Finch. Mrs. Finch’s curiosity was much exci- 
ted, and she immediately called Williamson, to know 
• It must be understood that Mrs. Finch farmed her own property. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


73 


what all this meant. He told her ; and, in his stam- 
mering way, said, “ Mis-mistress, do n’t ye mind en, 
’t is a ba-ba-bad man, and Maister Kem-Kemp is quite 
in the right on ’t.” 

The warning given to the miller produced various 
sensations. Mrs. Finch admired the penetration of 
Michael. Williamson approved it, for he was devoted 
to his mistress, and had no opinion of Mason. John 
Clark said to his son, “ Mind, boy ; for we have got 
a sharp master.” When Tom, the other carter re- 
turned, and Charles with him, they went into the 
stable and found Stephen : they had met Mason, who, 
like many others of his cast, had said more than truth 
warrants. “ So, Stephen, we ’re all going to be turn- 
ed off ; and mistress is to be married next Monday.” 
Stephen stopped his business, to ask where he heard 
that nonsense. “ Why it came from the house.” 
“ Indeed !” “ Mason met me by the lower feeding 

ground, and desired I ’d mind my manners, for here 
was the new master would have me in to look at me ; 
and he advised me to put my hand afor me, and look 
like a presbyterian, and then mayhap I might keep 
my place.” All this nonsense, and much more, pass- 
ed;; Michael kept on his steady way, and was not 
diverted from his purpose. 

The mill was repaired, and a small cottage added, 
and Michael daily attended to put things in train. His 
first proposal to his mistress was to put Williamson 
into the house ; but this honest fellow was so strong, 
and so much attached to his mistress, that she did not 
like to lose his protection. It was at length deter- 
mined to get a person as a mere laborer, who should 
7 


74 


THE HISTORY OF 


board at the farm, and so have no temptation to dis- 
honesty. Michael suggested to his mistress that the 
grinding should be paid at the time, and the stupid 
and dangerous practice of taking toll be no more per- 
mitted ; that the cottage should be let to some decent 
family, and the miller sleep there. 

While these arrangements were taking place, time 
slipped by, and the pleasant month of May dressed 
that lovely country anew. Michael had made progress 
slowly but surely : every eye watched to oblige him, 
every step quickened when he asked a favor ; and 
though he spared no one’s faults, he was so very just 
to their merits, that they were proud of his praise, 
because it was always given when merited. There 
was a farmer in the village who was a great talker, a 
great drinker, a restless irregular man ; desirous of 
gain, proud of command ; yet so unequal in his con- 
duct, that he would sit on a gate, kicking his legs, 
watching the boys at fives, then get down, finding one 
of his lads among them, and ask, what he meant by 
wasting his time, complain what a sad set he had, and 
walk home muttering all the way that nobody was 
plagued as he was w T ith such a set of little idle boys 
and a pack of worthless men and women : this man, 
whose name was Greaves, called one evening on Mrs. 
Finch (who never wished to see him), and said, “ he 
was glad to hear she was going on so prosperous ; 
but you are always in luck, and so is your brother 
always in luck. What do you give that young fellow 
there for looking after your business ?” Mrs. Finch 
made no reply. “ I say, whatever you give, I ’ll double 
if you ’ll part with him.” “ Mr. Greaves!” was all 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


75 


Mrs. Finch could say. She looked on Michael, who 
felt very uncomfortably ; but as Mrs. Finch seemed to 
expect him to say something, he rose with respect, 
and said, he was perfectly satisfied with his situa- 
tion, and had no wish to change : he then went out, 
leaving Mr. Greaves in astonishment that a person 
should not avail himself of what he said was “ an un- 
common genteel offer.” 

The character of Michael gradually unfolded it- 
self ; and he became so beloved in the house, and so 
respected, that he could not help feeling how God 
had heard his prayer, and given him favor in the eyes 
of those with whom he dwelt. Now, for the first 
time, poor Michael began to feel the power of tempta- 
tion. He thought he had attained ; and began to 
think he stood firm, that nothing could make him for- 
get his God ; and just then he forgot to keep his eye 
on that Savior on whose arm he had hitherto leaned ; 
he was treasuring up in his remembrance how his 
path had been hitherto marked by the Divine favor, 
and began to indulge the vain idea that he was a favor- 
ite of Heaven : he said, with the Psalmist, “ I shall nev- 
er be moved.” And here every Christian reader will 
pity him, and every experienced Christian foresee 
what happened — that, to save him from settling on 
past evidences, to prevent his becoming independent 
of that dear Friend whose goodness was his only stay, 
he must be taught his own weakness. It was in the 
beginning of hay-harvest, a very dry season, the hay 
just cut, and some careless person had left a scythe 
lying in the meadow : Michael not observing it, for it 
was almost covered with grass, trod on one side and 


76 


THE HISTORY OF 


turned his ankle so as to dislocate the joint. He lay 
under a burning sun, without power to rise till the 
people returned to their work, and to their astonish- 
ment found their beloved master lying in the dis- 
tressed situation we have described. He was nearly 
fainting when the people raised him and carried him 
home. Not to weary the reader with a tedious tale 
of afflictive remedies, the sprain was most distressing, 
and the restoratives of a very painful nature, from the 
necessity of dispersing the extravasated blood. Du- 
ring the long sleepless nights poor Michael passed, he 
was often led to examine what needs be there was for 
this affliction, and why he felt so sadly oppressed : 
had he not needed it, he was sure it would not have 
happened. Having no person to whom he could speak, 
he was driven to earnest prayer. He repeated that 
part of the Psalms — “ In my prosperity, I said, I 
shall never be moved ; thou, Lord, of thy goodness 
hast made my hill so strong : but now, alas ! I am 
cast out of the light of thy countenance. But mine 
eyes are unto thee, O thou worship of Israel ! O turn 
not thou thy face away from me ! I am poor and in 
misery, forsake me not ! O Lord, thou hast been my 
succor , leave me not, neither forsake me, O God of my 
salvation !” He remained in prayer, his eyes closed, 
and was relieved by these petitions, which seemed to 
suit with his depressed state. Many days his pain 
of body and the darkness of his mind kept him sadly 
low ; but He who waiteth to be gracious turned again 
in smiles, and the blessing of God’s presence was en- 
deared by privations ; then, as the Psalmist said, “ We 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


77 


were like those who dream then was his mouth 
filled with praise. 

The return of peace to his mind brought concern 
for his mistress’s temporal interest ; and as he now 
rested on a cane-couch in the bedroom, he begged to 
see Williamson, whose regard for his mistress made 
him his best instrument. Williamson came up : Mi- 
chael begged he would sit, as he had much to say. 
“ Sir, we be all main sorry for your bad a-ac-ci-ci- 
dent : we would all do what we could.” Michael : 
“ That is exactly what I wished to say to you, Wil- 
liamson ; that your mistress will suffer if you are not 
watchful.” — “ Yes, sir, I be — I be very quiet, but I 
watches all one ; and I think as ye ’ll be particular 
pleased, when ye can walk, to see how well they be- 
haves : and more nor that, they be main sorry for you, 
sir, and hope as you ’ll do well, for they all loved you 
as much as thof you were their own kin, they think.” 
It was vain for Michael to disguise ; he could not : he 
had determined never to win their love by doing wrong, 
he had never hoped to be beloved ; it affected him to 
tears ; he could only thank God. Williamson could 
not understand it : he supposed Mr. Kemp must have 
been thinking of something else. 

When Mr. Powell came to see Michael in the be- 
ginning of August, he said, “ Now, sir, I would have 
you try your crutches, and gently exercise your foot 
without suffering it to touch the ground.” This was 
good news to Michael : he availed himself of the per- 
mission, and ere September was over he could walk 
or ride a short distance without fatigue. But he felt 
it most true that care on his part must follow the sut- 
7 * 


78 


THE HISTORY OF 


geon’s ; for tedious indeed had the confinement been 
to him, and the protraction of it was more distressing 
to him than any other sickness, because he was well 
enough to enjoy reading, conversation, to eat, to drink, 
and to sleep well ; in short, weakness only prevented 
his using his limb, but patience must be exercised, he 
must not heed ill-natured speeches, but resign his 
good name into God’s keeping. Nevertheless, James 
Finch's repetition of a conversation he heard in the 
parlor between Mr. Greaves and his sister, Jemima 
Finch, did not increase his willingness to rest one 
moment longer than necessity required. This gossip- 
ping man came in one evening when Mrs. Finch was 
gone to the rectory with a yearly present of the finest 
honey, and after a gracious nod, and “ Well, young la- 
dy, and how are you now, and how is Madam Finch 
and the young ’squire ?” he drew his chair, and asked 
for a little warm hollands and water. “ My mother 
is out, sir ; and I am seldom left alone, so that I rarely 
think of the keys : but I can get you some ale, sir, if 
you please.” — “ Well, Miss Jemima, I ’ll take a little 
of your ale, if it be fresh ; for I should be mighty sorry 
to get the mulligrubs.” — “ Sir !” said Jemima, won- 
dering, while the sapient Mr. Greaves sat on the hall- 
table, kicking his legs about. “ I ’ll take some ale, 
miss.” The ale was brought. “ And pray, Miss Je- 
mima, how is Mr. Kemp, your head man ?” — “ He is 
much better, sir, I thank you.” — “ Oh ! you thank me : 
well, here ’s both your healths, and I hope you ’ll be 
very happy.” — “ Sir !” said this very simple-minded 
girl. “ Pray, miss, is your mother coming in soon !” 
— “I really can’t tell, sir : my mother is gone to 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


79 


Mr. Cooper’s, sir ; and Mrs. Cooper is very fond of 
my mother, and she sometimes stops rather late ; their 
servant always comes home with her.” — “ Indeed, 
miss !” — “ Yes, sir.” — “ I am very. glad, miss, Mr. 
Kemp is so well ; pray, when do you expect him down 
stairs ?” — “ He has been down to-day, sir ; but the 
doctor says he must have patience, or he ’ll be bad 
again.” — “ That would be a sad pity, Miss Jemima.” 
— “ Yes, sir.” — “I suppose your men have had a 
merry life on ’t ; they don’t wish him well as much as 
you do, miss : I never heard as the mice was fond of 
the cat.” — “ Sir ?” said Jemima, whose mind was so 
unaccustomed to any but simple meanings, that these 
figures of speech quite confounded her, and she wait- 
ed with a natural look of inquiry to know his meaning. 
“ Why, miss, did you ever see a mouse run after a 
cat?” — “No, sir.” — “Well, miss, I suppose, as 
your men be pretty much like the mice, they have no 
objection to Mr. Michael being safe in his nest : I 
thinks as he must have had a mighty agreeable time 
on ’t ever since the middle of June (he has been nursed 
and coddled), and here is September.” — “He has 
suffered a great deal, sir ; Mr. Powell said, if the leg 
had been broken he would not have suffered near so 
much.” — “Indeed!” — “Yes, indeed; Mr. Powell 
said so.” — “ It has been a pretty little job for Mr. 
Powell ; I suppose he *11 have half of Mr. Kemp’s wa- 
ges ?” — “ I do not know, sir.” There was a natural 
good sense about Jemima, though she could not un- 
derstand the low allusions of Mr. Greaves ; yet she 
never committed any family affairs to the ear of a 
stranger, and rested silent to all these observations. 


80 


THE HISTORY OF 


The undaunted Mr. Greaves said no more to Jemima : 
but asking for a servant to light him over the ploughed 
fields, he began with Stephen, the promising boy we 
have before mentioned — “ So, Stephen, I suppose 
you ’ve had nice holydays since this famous Mr. Kemp 
has been in his state bedchamber V* 

Stephen. Sir ! 

Mr. Greaves. You ’ve had a merry life on ’t of late, 
I say. 

Stephen. No, sir, I can’t say we have ; for Mr. 
Kemp has been so bad, and we have missed him sad- 
ly ; he knows business, and he ’s so thoughtful like, 
’t is a pleasure to work under him. 

Mr. G. [Rather vexed to be disappointed.] And 
you are all such good steady workmen, that you like 
to be looked after ? 

Stephen. Yes, sir, we do ; at least I do. I ’m sure 
we’ll all be main glad when Mr. Kemp can come 
among us. 

This was very provoking to Mr. Greaves, whose 
whole visit was made with a view to pick up scandal. 
He reached home in silence, and dismissed the boy 
without thanking him ; and Stephen was full of won- 
der at Mr. Greaves’s questions. Thus it is in this 
world. True excellence always raises the enmity of 
bad men ; and whoever hopes to obtain the approba- 
tion of the world at large will be greatly deceived. 
The smile of Heaven, and peace in his own bosom, 
are the sure reward of the good man here, and the 
consolation of walking uprightly before God will sup- 
port him in his hours of pain and weakness. 

We have hitherto been so much engaged with the 
inmates of the Valley Farm, that we have given no 


MICHA.EL KEMP. 


81 


account of the village, the rectory, the school, &c. 

The village of was in a beautiful situation ; a 

variety of hill and dale, a small regular street with 
the church at the end, and two roads branching one 
on each side of the churchyard. The only really 
pretty part of the street was the village-green, which 
was planted in the corners with walnut-trees, five in 
a clump : these trees were a gift from the late rector 
to the children of the poor, and the village-green was 
the gift of the lord of the manor. This was kept 
very neatly ; and on a fine summer’s eve it was worth 
any one’s while to walk to see the happy group at 
play : the old peasants would sit on the benches, and 
often judge of the merits of the young competitors. 
Michael had never visited the green, he had only been 
to the church and home ; for in the week he was busy 
with arrangements, and on Sundays the little leisure 
he had was spent in reading and meditation. How- 
ever, when he was sufficiently recovered, Mrs. Finch 
told him one morning she thought that he had better 
go to the green, and take James with him. When 
they came to the first cottage, James said, “ Mr. Kemp, 
would you like to see our school V* M. “ I should, 
indeed.” So they went in. At the top of the room 
was a very large rod, and beside it a long paper cap 
and tassels of curled worsted, and in a corner stood a 
culprit with his back to the little company. There 
were about thirty-five children variously engaged : 
the boys appeared very idle : the little girls had work, 
and therefore had less temptation to waste time and 
tear books. Michael ventured to ask, if Mrs. Fair- 
brother had ever heard of the new plan which kept 


82 


THE HISTORY OF 


the whole school employed at once by means of 
the children themselves. The old woman rose, and, 
shaking with passion, said, “ I ’ll tell ye what, I ’ll 
tell ye what, I’ve taught school fifty years — fifty 
years ; every farmer in this parish have larned of me 
and mine, and d’ ye think I be going to be teached 
by a boy ?” The children began to laugh, and 
look at one another, and Michael, thinking it not 
right to invade the dignity of an instructress, with- 
drew, not without hearing — “Well, a good rid- 
dance !” and then something about “ Poor Mason !” 
This went into Michael’s heart with pain ; but before 
he could shut the gate of the little garden, he saw 
the clergyman, with his wife and little girl, coming 
near, and stepped back to reopen the gate. Mr. 
Cooper said, “ I hope, Mr. Kemp, you have recovered 
from your accident ?” Michael bowed, and said he 
had, excepting weakness. He passed to the village- 
green, and Mr. Cooper to the school. James being 
seated by Michael, under shade of the trees, could 
contain no longer : “ What a shocking passion Mrs. 
Fairbrother was in!” — “Yes, really,” said Michael, 
“ and I am very sorry I spoke to her.” He sat down, 
and could not help reflecting how painful it was, that, 
turn which way he would, he gave offence. Poor 
fellow ! the weakness of his body weakened his spir- 
its, and destroyed the calm he had felt at first setting 
out for his walk. Mr. Cooper’s manner was very 
kind, but he determined to draw consolation from a 
better source ; and pulling out his little Bible, he read 
that portion of Peter (1st epistle, 2d chap.) : “ This 
is thankworthy, if a man for conscience toward God, 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


83 


endure grief, suffering wrongfully.” He could say he 
had never acted in anything important, without a de- 
sire to please God ; and he took consolation. He sat 
reading under the trees, while James made himself a 
whip of a hazel twig and some string. 

In the meantime Mr. Cooper returned; and passing 
near Michael, he rose to give him place on the bench. 
“Well, Mr. Kemp,” said Mr. Cooper, “you have 
greatly offended our village Busby. How could you 
dare to propose innovation to a person whose experi- 
ence has carried her through half a century V y This 
was pronounced with so grave an air, that, but for the 
smile which accompanied the last sentence, he would 
have feared he had offended Mr. Cooper, as well as 
Mrs. Fairbrother. Michael replied, that when he set 
out, he had no other thought but of going to the vil- 
lage-green, and certainly had still less intention of 
offending Mrs. Fairbrother. Mr. Cooper said, “You 
are a young man, Mr. Kemp : should you live to my 
age, you will find prejudice too hard for you, and 
when accompanied by ignorance it is impregnable. 
That good woman prefers hearing every child read 
singly, and leaving ten idle while she teaches one, to 
putting the whole party in motion, and employing ev- 
ery child the whole time of school-hours. I never 
like to think on the subject, it so vexes and mortifies 
me ; but call I must, because it is my duty. Good 
morning ; I sincerely wish you better.” Michael’s 
heart inclined him to detain Mr. Cooper a minute on 
the subject of Mason, the miller : he looked, but did 
not speak. Mr. Cooper perceived he wished to say 
something, and turned back : “ Had you anything fur- 
ther to say t” 


84 


THE HISTORY OF 


Michael. Yes, indeed ; I had, sir. Mason, the 
miller — I certainly wished Mrs. Finch to part with 
him ; he did not appear to me a person likely to suit. 
I am sure I had no personal dislike to him, having 
only seen him once. His want of respect for Mrs. 
Finch’s character led me to judge that he was by no 
means a proper servant for her. 

Mr. Cooper. I believe every person in this parish, 
who has any regard for their own interest, is obliged 
to you ; we all find the advantage of an honest miller. 
But Mrs. Fairbrother had two children of the miller’s, 
and her ear was open to his exaggerated complaints. 
The miller has left the village, and you were the 
cause of his removal : these are unpardonable sins. 

Michael. I am very sorry, sir, to have an enemy. 

Mr. C. If you are determined not to have an en- 
emy, you must resolve to have no rule of action, but 
bend to the evil designs of evil men. Every man will 
consider you his enemy, whose conduct you do not 
approve; and the very sins they themselves are 
most known to commit, they will be sure to cast on 
you : thus, for instance, Mr. Greaves will say you 
never speak a word of truth ; Mr. Mason will charge 
you with filling your purse at your mistress’s expense ; 
and Mrs. Fairbrother will say you are a selfish, ma- 
licious young man. Would you wish to enjoy the 
peace your own excellent principles entitle you to 
share, busy yourself only in your own circle : there 
is a restlessness in wicked people, and they enjoy 
inflicting the misery they feel, if they can but throw 
their wicked darts at the peaceable ; these are all 
united at bottom, and ’t is a relief bad spirits always 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


85 


feel, to sink the worthy by their malignity. You have 
sufficient employment. If you have any hour of lei- 
sure, let me see you : I have an intention to establish 
a two-hours’ school for all who can attend it. I mean 
to give a cottage in the centre of our pretty village- 
green, and I shall admit none who cannot pay three- 
halfpence a week. I shall also give a milk-porridge 
supper to all who will pay a yearly subscription of six 
shillings. I shall be very glad to take the advice of 
any who will oblige me with it. It has struck me, 
that for a village where they see and know so little, a 
moral catechism might be a good thing, beside the 
Sunday exercise of the church. But more of this at 
some future day. 

Again Mr. Cooper bowed, and again Michael sought 
the Valley Farm. 

There is such a similarity in the days of a person 
only employed in the simple duties of life in a coun- 
try village, that we must of necessity pass over some 
months, and inform the reader that Michael had quite 
recovered from his accident ; that his health was per- 
fectly established, and his respectability increasing 
every day, when he received the following letter from 
his sister : — 

“ Dear Brother : I am very happy at home, only 
I think ’t would be better for the family, if one or two 
of us could get out ; and your master, Mr. Moss, came 
to a sale of sheep at P., and called on father to tell 
him as Mrs. Finch liked you so much ; so I made bold 
to ask him if he knew of a place for me, and he said 
he should n’t wonder but I might do for his sister ; 

8 


86 


THE HISTORY OF 


and he asked if I had been out. Now, brother Mi- 
chael, it would be so happy like to live with you, do 
pray tell your mistress that I ’ll be particularly happy 
to come ; and tell her that I have had the whole care 
of the rectory dairy, and made every kind of cheese, 
and that the butter has never been misliked but once, 
and that was when it was long in gathering and long 
in coming ; and I ’m sure as I fretted enough about 
that. I have learned a little of everything at the rec- 
tory, because Madam Walker thought to serve me. 
Pray try to get me to live where you do, my own 
Michael. 

“ Your dutiful sister, 

“ Fanny Kemp.” 

Michael shed many tears over this letter : the first 
he had had since he lived at the Valley. Nothing 
could be more agreeable to his feelings than to have 
his own F anny so near him ; but he dared do nothing 
of this sort, without much thought, much prayer, and 
quiet consideration ; but as his master could not have 
proposed it, if he had not in some degree liked Fan- 
ny’s appearance, he thought he would give Mrs. Finch 
the letter without any observation. He did so ; and 
Mrs. Finch said, “ Perhaps, Mr. Kemp, you may not 
know that Judith goes at Michaelmas ?” 

Michael. No, ma’am, I did not. 

Mrs. F. She is to marry Joseph Clark. 

Michael. Joseph is a very good servant ; but they 
are both young. 

Mrs. F. I think so, too, Mr. Kemp ; but they seem 
determined. Is your sister aware that ours is a farm- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


87 


house ? I fear our place may not be good enough, 
and that there is too much hard work. Is she deli- 
cate in her health ? 

Michael. Not at all, ma’am ; but I hope you will 
not think I wish to press you to take my sister. 

Mrs. F. No, indeed, Mr. Kemp ; but I should be 
very sorry to see your sister unhappy when she 
came. 

Michael remained silent ; he saw Mrs. Finch was 
rather backward, and not knowing her reason, he de- 
termined to leave it entirely. Three days passed, 
and not a word was spoken. Michael longed to write 
to his precious, warm-hearted Fanny, but he thought 
he would stay till the following day ; however, that 
very evening Mrs. Finch stopped him, as he was go- 
ing to bed, and said, “ Mr. Kemp, I have consulted 
Mrs. Cooper, and she advises me by all means to take 
your sister. And now I ’ll tell you the true reason 
why I thought it would not suit : my brother wrote 
me word Fanny Kemp wanted a place, and advised 
me by all means to take her. * She comes,’ says he, 
‘ of a good stock ; I never saw a prettier girl, and she 
has an uncommon genteel way with her.’ Now, Mr. 
Kemp, it was natural for me to think all this was 
above a farm-house ; but Mrs. Cooper says if she will 
not do here, she may do for her ; so if you please to 
send word if she can wait two months, I shall be 
happy to take her.” Michael wrote to his mother the 
following letter, with a postscript for Fanny : — 

“ My dear and honored Mother : It has pleased 
God to fix me far away from you ; but I never forget 


88 


THE HISTORY OF 


to think on you when the labor of my day is over, and 
I pray to God to take care of you all, and to bring us 
together again. I had a letter from Fanny : Mrs. 
Finch is willing to take her. You know how much 
I love her ; and I hope she will not be at all giddy, 
because that would make all our hearts ache. Tell 
her there is a great deal to do, and pray her to think 
well on ’t before she comes. My duty to my father : 
my love to the children. 

“ Your own 

“ Michael Kemp. 

“ PS. — Dear Fanny, precious sister, I can hardly 
believe my own happiness ; to see you in two months 
is such a pleasure ! But, Fanny, my dear love, do 
not be fond of dress ; be always clean, but never j fine, 
as the silly girls call it ; I never think well of a poor 
girl dressed up. I send half a five-pound note ; three 
to buy father a great-coat, one for my mother, and the 
other for you : I send it to you for fear my father and 
mother should thank me : I will have nothing but 
their blessing. Give me a line soon, my dear, dear 
sister, to let me know you have the note safe.” 

The note reached in safety, and the fond parents 
thanked God for his goodness in giving them such a 
son. The prospect of Fanny’s going out was such a 
comfort : “ and in the same house with our Michael, 
too,” said the father, as he sat cowering over the blaze 
of a nice wood-fire. He looked up, smiling — “ A 
wise son maketh a glad father ; but a foolish son is 
the heaviness of his mother.” His eye moistened as 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


89 


he spoke, and he looked on his family. Joe burst into 
tears, and every eye was turned on him. He was a 
slim boy, of thirteen years, and his father had taken 
some pains to teach him to read, and given him the 
advantage of a master for writing, for the winter ; but 
the boy’s sense was not equal to Michael’s. He con- 
tinued crying. His mother said, “ My poor boy, what 
can make you cry, now we are all so happy ■?” He 
said not a word, but continued crying. Fanny went 
to him — “Darling Joe, tell your own Fan what is 
the matter ?” — “ Go to bed, foolish boy,” said his 
father. The poor boy went out, and Fanny followed. 
She stayed a long time, and when she came back, said, 
“ Do, father, do, mother, go and comfort Joe. He 
thought when you looked up that you meant him, 
when you said ‘ a foolish son is the heaviness of his 
mother and then when you said, ‘ Go to bed, foolish 
boy,’ he was sure of it : and I cannot persuade him.” 
“ Poor Joe ! poor Joe !” said both father and mother; 
and they went to comfort him. 

Reader, pardon the digression. We are sure, to all 
lovers of feeling and nature, the fireside of the worthy 
Kemps will not be uninteresting. 

Stephen, the lad whom we mentioned in the fore- 
going pages, had recommended himself to Michael by 
the most uniform good conduct, and the most pleasing 
attention to his personal convenience. Never would 
he suffer him to want a clean pair of shoes, a coat 
brushed, nor any comfort his attendance could bestow. 
This began in the boy’s waiting on Michael, in his 
room, in the worst period of his accident ; and as Mi- 
chael had chosen him for his attendant, the boy con- 
8 * 


90 


THE HISTORY OF 


tinned about him, and so endeared himself, that Mi- 
chael felt for him a fondness he had never before ex- 
perienced for a stranger. During his long nights of 
suffering he used to repeat a good deal of Scripture ; 
and the faithful Stephen, hearing the sound of his 
voice, would rise upon his elbow — “ Mr. Kemp, sir, 
I sleep so sound ; pray call loud, sir, if you want me. 

I ’m sure I ’d be main sorry to sleep when you wanted 
me. Had not I better be up, sir ?” “ No, Stephen : 

it would make me very uncomfortable. 1 promise to 
call you when I want anything.” It was now Mi- 
chael felt the fulfilment of that promise, “ he that wa- 
tereth shall be watered also himself for the many 
sleepless nights he had passed with Jem had returned 
on his mind, in the willing services of Stephen ; and 
the only thoughts which occupied his mind were, how 
he could repay his temporal services by spiritual in- 
struction. Stephen always heard with respect, and 
used regularly to attend his order, where to find the 
three texts which Michael wished him to read in the 
day. Michael’s plan was this : doctrine, faith, and 
practice : “ All we, like sheep, have gone astray ; we 
have turned every one to his own way.” “ Believe 
on the Lord Jesus, and thou shalt be saved.” “ Bring 
forth fruits meet for repentance.” These he used to 
look out in the day, and write the book, chapter, and 
verse. Stephen was to read them first to him, and 
then again to himself, and at night he read them to 
Michael. The boy’s mind was not particularly bril- 
liant ; but truth once received, remained : and this 
habit was pleasing to him, first because Michael 
wished it, and then he felt that he read with more 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


91 


pleasure when he understood how to apply it ; and 
latterly he went to the Bible in all his difficulties, as 
would consult a friend. 

The gradual intercourse between Michael and this 
good boy never declined. Stephen kept the footing 
he had gained ; and when there was no pretence for 
nursing him, he always found some question to ask : 
as, “ Pray, sir, do n’t you think our house is improv- 
ing ? — Sir, I think Charles is got steady : I minds 
when he always went on a Sunday to the public. — 
To-morrow we are going to try to get a little money 
for poor Dawes’s widow ; she ’s in a power of trouble, 
sir. I remembers the mite as, our Savior said, was 
more than all the rich men’s gifts.” By these, and 
other little plans, Stephen contrived to get Michael’s 
ear. But though he was very much delighted with 
the gro.wing worth of Stephen, he found the excellent 
plan he first formed with a pure intention by degrees 
lessened his own leisure for prayer ; and this he felt 
to be the first step to decline in vital piety : it led to 
the following conversation between Michael and the 
pleasant, improving Stephen : — 

It was nine o’clock, and Stephen had brought Mi- 
chael his slippers and took his shoes, and they were 
walking up the broad old staircase, when Michael 
turned to go into his room, and Stephen was full of 
questions on some subjects he wished to bring before 
his friend. Michael, holding the door in his hand, 
said, “ Good night, Stephen.” 

Stephen. May I speak one word, Master Michael ? 

Michael. Certainly. 

Stephen. Are you angry with me, sir ? 


92 


THE HISTORY OF 


Michael. No, indeed ; what can make you think so ? 

Stephen. Because, sir, you used to talk to me of a 
night ; and I love to hear you, it does me so much 
good. 

Michael. I am truly glad of this, Stephen : but you 
will allow I ought to take some care of my own soul ; 
and I have found of late that my prayers are short and 
sleepy, after you leave me ; and this must not be. 
Look in your Bible to-morrow, Stephen and tell me 
what you think of the latter part of the 6th verse of 
the 1st chapter of Solomon’s Song ; I feel that it ap- 
plies to me. 

Stephen. I go, sir, because you wish it ; but cannot 
think God can be angry with you who are doing every 
one good. 

Michael. You are very young, Stephen ; and you 
know but little of me : as to my doing good, I am sure 
I wish to do it, but I cannot neglect prayer ; if I do, 
I shall very soon cease to deserve yours or any other 
person’s good word. 

Stephen went away ; but he soliloquized, all the 
way he went, “ No, no ! Mr. Kemp is out there, he 
can’t help being good ; it ’s his nature to be good.” 

According to his usual custom, Stephen went to 
call him at five, and he took his bread and milk at 
six. He could not resist asking the meaning of that 
text, “ They made me keeper of the vineyard, but my 
own vineyard have I not kept.” 

Michael. In many parts of the Scripture the heart 
is compared to a vineyard ; and I feel that, in the up- 
right desire to do good to others, neglect of myself 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


93 


has crept in. We have an arch foe, who goeth about 
as a roaring lion seeking whom he may devour. 

Stephen (still warm-hearted though silent) looked 
incredulous. 

Michael. Do you wish me well, Stephen ? 

Stephen. Oh, sir ! you know I do. 

Michael. Then let me hear you speak of the good- 
ness of Him who died for us, and never more of my 
goodness. Remember what the Apostle Paul says, 
“ I thank God, I baptized none of you ; for even in 
those days converts were apt to look at sinners, and 
not at the Savior. Avoid this snare, my good fellow ! 
And now for business. I know that in me, that is, in 
my flesh, dwelleth no good thing.” 

This conversation had a good effect. The affec- 
tionate heart of Stephen understood his master’s mean- 
ing ; and he no more intruded, but left him with a 
respectful smile the following evening. This little 
attention, and the continuance of leisure every night, 
was duly prized and well improved : and often as the 
door of his bedroom closed, he would exclaim in the 
fulness of his heart, “ Praise the Lord, O my soul ! 
and forget not all his benefits !” 


94 


THE HISTORY OF 



CHAPTER IY. 

About this time, as Michael was in the fields, one 
morning about ten o’clock, a message came to him 
that a person wanted him ; and he returned, giving 
his horse to Williamson, with orders that he would 
see to some draining he was overlooking. With lei- 
sure stride he crossed the home-fields and farm-yard, 
and saw a tall young man sitting in the porch. The 
person rose as he drew near, and, in a tone of famil- 
iarity, said, “ How dost do, Michael ?” For the first 
minute, he could not tell who it was ; but a flush of 
the countenance recalled him, and — “ Oh, Jem, is it 
you ?” followed. 

Jem. I ’ve made bold to come and ask a favor of 
you, Michael : that is, as you ’d speak to my char- 
acter. 

Michael replied, he was by no means a person 
proper to give characters, being himself a servant. 
He observed Jem colored very high, when he replied 
he did not want a character for a place, but had got 
himself into a little trouble, and he had n’t a friend in 
the world as could do him any good but Michael. 

Michael looked, as he felt, astonished. “ Surely, 
Jem, Mr. Moss, your master, is the person to apply 
to ; he is so well known, and you have been there so 
many years.” 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


95 


Jem. Yes, so I have ; but I have left master these 
four months, and I left him in a kind of a pet like ; 
and I can’t tell an he might choose to speak for 
me, because master’s got so raging religious since 
that new Mr. Lascelles came : he ’s for having pray- 
ers every night, and Sundays beside ; asleep or 
awake, we must all down on our knees, and master 
reads prayers himself. I ’m sure I ’m content as he 
should, if he likes it : and one night he calls me up 
to un, and asks me if I wa’ n’t asleep. I said I be- 
lieved as I was. He said he thought that wa’ n’t 
decent : and I answered un again, that I worked hard 
all day, and I did n’t see nothing indecent in going 
to sleep when my work was done. All the peo- 
ple stood round and stared at me, and Cicely burst 
out laughing : so master said, “ You, Cicely, may suit 
yourself, when your year is up ; and so may you, Mr. 
Jem ; but I once thought that you were better dis- 
posed.” I know what master meant, though he never 
said : he meant when you lived at the farm. Master 
was right enough ; that was my best time. Well, 
after my year was up, which was on the 25th of 
March, I thought I ’d see the world ; so I went to my 
uncle’s, and left my box, and I took two pound of my 
money in my pocket, and three shirts, and three pair 
of stockings, and off I set. I took a little task-work 
in the next village, and lodged ; but that did n’t do me 
any good. One day as I was walking, not quite set- 
tled in my own mind what to do next, I see’d a young 
girl, about sixteen, coming up. She was an uncom- 
mon smart-looking girl ; and fixing her eye on me, 
she said, “ Crqss my hand, and I ’ll tell you.” I 


96 


THE HISTORY OF 


pulled out sixpence, and she told me, “ I was born to 
live free ; that I should find friends where I little 
expected ’em ; that I was above labor ; that I should 
rise high, if I followed fortune and a great deal 
more as I liked to hear very well. — But you look 
angry, Michael. 

Michael . No, Jem ; but I almost know your story, 
without hearing it. 

Jem. Well, I went with them to the woods ; and 
to be sure I was surprised. There was a power of 
’em : there was an old man, looking very grand and 
cross ; his wife, I suppose, by him ; horses and bag- 
gage, and an old cart ; and under a ragged rug lay 
three or four asleep ; a number of little children ; five 
or six young women smoking : every one very dark, 
with a sly, uncommon look. The old man looked at 
Rose, the girl who led me to them, and asked what I 
came for. She said, “ I was born to live free.” — “ I 
see that,” said the old woman. It grew dusk ; I 
did n’t much like it, and I began to wish I was at 
prayers at my old master’s. However, to cut my 
story short, one of the women told me I was born to 
marry Rose. I did n’t believe that, but I thought I ’d 
get out as well as I could. The old man never 
seemed to like me ; the young ones took to me might- 
ily. I continued there above six weeks. We lived 
well, and I own I was very much at my ease : there 
was plenty of fun ; good eating and drinking ; but I 
am under a black oath not to betray them. Once, as 
I stood at the door of the tent, and ’t was really in my 
mind to make off, I heard a very gruff voice close to 
my ear — “Your heels are not feathered.” All the 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


97 


blood forsook my body ; and I think if I had not 
coughed I should have been lost. Rose looked at 
me : “ Have you done that net, Jem ?” — “I have, and 
hope to try it to-night.” — “ Not to-night !” said the 
same dull voice : but this did not frighten me. “ Yes, 
to-night, father,” said I ; and I jumped and crossed 
my legs twice. My spirit saved me from suspicion, 
and I presently after lay down by Samson, a fellow I 
never liked ; but I thought best not to go by Phil, a 
young fellow just of my own sort. Well, as good 
luck would have it, — 

Michael . I hope a kind Providence. 

Jem. Ay, yes, a lucky Providence — I was off, and 
nobody missed me till I got to my uncle’s. He was 
surprised to see me looking so dirty ; and I didn’t 
know what to say, for if I had told him how long I 
had lived in that place, I really believe he would not 
have let me in. 

Michael. So then you told your uncle a lie, James ? 

Jem. Not quite that neither. I said I had been 
making nets, and that was true ; but my uncle looked 
at me, and with horror said, “ I hope my sister’s son 
has not turned poacher : I never boded good since thee 
left thy master.” I told my uncle he was mistaken : 
and that, if ever I was at liberty to tell, I would let 
him know where I had been. He turned away, and 
I went to get work ; there was plenty then, and I got 
good wages, and paid my uncle well for my board. 
But last Friday that ever was I came in, and I see’d 
two men talking to my uncle : I heard him say, “ If 
I could believe it, I ’d give him up, I ’d give him up, I 
say ; but justice shall be done, I say justice shall be 
9 


98 


THE HISTORY OF 


done.” “ Yes, sir,” said the man, “ that ’s what ’s to 
be done. This man will swear to him, he lived with 
him six weeks and more ; and he was the man as 
robbed Farmer Moss, and brought the goods into our 
company, this man knows him: it’s a hard thing to 
see a good old grandfather like to be hanged for such 
a profligate young chap.” “ If,” said my uncle, “ he 
is guilty, I ’ll not harbor him, but I never knew the boy 
touch a pin that did n’t belong to him ; and my sister’s 
son shall not be hanged to save an old gipsy grand- 
father.” “ Well, sir, we have the king’s warrant.” 
Now my uncle began to tremble ; and I stayed not a 
moment, but crept up the chimney, ran over the roof 
like a cat, dropped down, crawled along the garden in 
the next field, lay there in a ditch two hours, and 
made the best of my way over the road till I got to 

; then, seeing a wagon, I got in, and lay among 

the goods, determining to get out in the night, and 
walk on till 1 could find my way to you. Last night, 
for the first time, I got some hours’ sleep, and bought 
some decent things to come here. Now this is my 
story, Michael ; and I am as innocent as you are of 
robbing any one. But, Michael, who do you think 
that was as offered to swear to me ? 

Michael. I cannot guess. 

Jem. Do. 

Michael. 1 cannot. 

Jem. ’T was Robert ; that boy as I saved hanging. 

Michael Oh ! then, you did let Robert out ? 

Jem. Yes, I did ; and this is his gratitude. 

Michael. Could you expect gratitude from such a boy? 

Jem. Why ’t was a good service as I did him. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


99 


Michael. Yes, indeed ; but, Jem, no friendship is 
sound which has sin for its basis. Depend on it, he 
is in danger of hanging, and he had rather you should 
be hanged than he. 

Jem. I ’m not of his mind ; I ’d rather he than I. 
But what can I do ? 

Michael. I ’m sure I cannot tell. I will go and 
speak to my mistress : but first let me put you in safe- 
ty. He led him up to his own room, carried him re- 
freshment, and, seeking for his mistress, told her the 
whole story. She was the kindest creature, and con- 
tinually exclaimed, “ Poor boy ! poor boy ! what can 
we do for him ? I knew his honest father and 
mother ; never were honester people than James 
Brown and his wife. I wish I could see my brother ; 
or you, Mr. Kemp, if you could go.” 

Michael. I could and would go, madam ; but had 
we not better ask advice from Mr. Cooper ? 

Mrs. Finch. Yes, that is true : I will put on my 
bonnet directly, and go. 

She was soon out, and at the rectory. Mrs. Coop- 
er was in her pleasant garden, and welcomed her 
neighbor very cordially ; but poor Mrs. Finch was too 
much in a flutter to answer her kind inquiries. “ Can 
I see Mr. Cooper, madam ?” 

Mrs. Cooper. Yes ; but are you in any trouble ? 

Mrs. Finch. Yes, madam, I am ; though not exactly 
I, but I feel very sorry for the poor young man. 

Mrs. Cooper went in, and was followed by Mrs. 
Finch. Mr. Cooper soon joined them. “ Well, my 
good Mrs. Finch, pray sit down, and tell me what I 
can do to serve you.” Mrs. Finch told her story, and 


100 


THE HISTORY OF 


Mr. Cooper remained very thoughtful. “ Can you 
give any opinion of this young man’s character V 1 

Mrs. F. He has lived many years with my broth- 
er, sir, and his family have always been very honest, 
respectable people. 

Mr. C. How has he behaved at your brother’s ? 

Mrs. F. He was what you may call a clever boy, 
sir ; not idle, but not exactly to be trusted. 

Mr. C. Ay ; I know many such, who have very 
pleasant qualities, but who want steadiness, which 
can alone give confidence. 

Mrs. F. Yes, sir, that is it. I am sure the boy’s 
honest ; but I never knew my brother trust him, as he 
did Mr. Kemp. 

Mr. C. No, indeed ; Mr. Kemp is a person of no 
common character : his looks are so composed, that a 
physiognomist would choose him before knowing 
him ; and, when known, every favorable impression is 
confirmed. 

Mrs. F. Indeed, sir, I am very sensible of his 
worth ; and I think him, in every respect, the best 
young man I know. I ’m sure he has saved me a 
hundred pounds, in times he has been here. But, sir, 
what can we do for poor James Brown ? 

Mr. C. What is the charge against him ? 

Mrs. F. Robbing my brother ; but of what, I 
do n’t think the boy knows, for he came off to Michael 
directly. 

Mr. C. Shall I write to your brother ? 

Mrs. F. Sir, you ’re very good ; but had n’t I better 
send somebody ? I could go myself, or I could send 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


101 


Mr. Kemp ; for Williamson was always trusty, and 
he ’s got so handy-like, since Mr. Kemp lived here. 

Mr. C. Has he, indeed ? 

Mrs. F. Yes, indeed, sir, he has : Mr. Kemp has 
got such a head to plan things, and such a sweet 
temper. 

Mrs. C. Mr. Cooper has often remarked him. 
When he first came, we were told that he was a 
methodist, and we were sorry for you, for we have 
heard enough of those fanatics ; but it’s clearly proved 
his method is a very good method. 

Mr. C. Come, come, my good ladies, keep to the 
point ; you call on me for advice to save a poor boy 
from hanging, and now where have we got to ? 

Mrs. F. Well, sir, you think we had better send 1 

Mr. C. I think no advice can be given till we 
know the case. 

Mrs. F. True, sir, true. Good morning. Thank 
you, sir : thank you, madam. 

The good woman was met half way by Michael, 
who had his horse’s bridle in his hand, and a small bag 
packed ; for thus he thought, — “ If I must go, I ’ll be 
ready ; if not, no harm is done.” So, as soon as Mrs. 
Finch said, “ You are to go, Mr. Michael,” he put his 
foot in the stirrup ; and, bending from his horse, said, 
“ I have told James Brown what to say to you, madam, 
and have directed the servants as to his employment ; 
for he had better be employed and this active, use- 
ful servant was soon out of sight. “ God bless you, 
honest, faithful young man,” said Mrs. Finch: “ God 
will bless you !” She entered her house, and Wil- 
liamson met her, looking very arch, and, in his odd 
9 * 


102 


THE HISTORY OF 


rough way, said, “ Could ye have beleft it, mistress, I 
be the master ; they be all to obey I? I knows all 
as be expected ; and I ’ve got a brisk young chap un- 
der me, with a charge to take care on him ; and, if 
anybody comes here after him, to keep him close till 
Master Kemp comes. I ha’ n’t seen a lad I liked 
better for some time ; and I thinks he ’s some kin to 
Master Kemp, and we be all the better pleased.” 
Mrs. Finch suffered Williamson to think this still, as 
she saw it would be for Jem’s advantage. 

We must now leave Williamson to look after the 
Valley Farm, and go with Michael to the house of his 
old master. 

Michael travelled speedily, yet carefully. His 
horse was the same valuable beast which had so often 
carried poor Farmer Finch ; the creature was now in 
better hands ; and Mrs. Finch as a proof of her regard, 
had given him to Michael. It was the beginning of 
September ; and though the moon was not at full, it 
added something to the daylight, and he performed 
with ease his journey to that inn where he had last 
seen William. The rough yet honest face returned 
to his mind ; and he anticipated the pleasure of meet- 
ing him on the morrow, with his other old acquaint- 
ance. 

He looked to the safety and comfort of his faithful 
animal, and then, ordering a slight supper, retired to a 
comfortable bed. As he closed his eyes, his last words 
were, “ Who am I, and what, is my father’s house, 
that Thou thus crownest me with thy goodness ?” 

He was called at four ; his breakfast was concluded, 
and his account settled by five ; the road good and 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


103 


well known. As Michael drew near the farm, the first 
object he saw was Johanna, carrying out some skim- 
milk to the pigs : down she set her pail, and away 
she ran into the house. She was soon followed by 
the farmer, in a fright to know if all were well at the 
Valley : “ All ’s well, sir,” said Michael, the first word. 
“ Thank God,” said the Farmer, “ I was afraid. 
Well, come in, my good lad, come it’s heartily wel- 
come, always welcome here and he stared out of 
the window. “ Always, always.” He could say no 
more, for tears choked his utterance ; and Michael 
could only take his hand, and reply, “ My dear mas- 
ter !” 

Farmer M. Oh, Michael ! you ’ll be sorry, main 
sorry to hear it ; Jem, as you nursed so kindly — oh, 
the poor boy, he *11 come to be hanged ! and I shall be 
the cause cn ’t, that pinches me most. 

[Michael determined to hear the farmer’s story be- 
fore he owned any knowledge of the affair.] “ Sir !” 
said he, in honest concern, and feigned surprise. 

Farmer M. Yes, indeed, he stole all my shirts 
early one morning last July, all my striped waistcoats, 
two of my bed-quilts ; not to say anything of poul- 
try, &c. 

Michael. Are you sure, sir, it was Jem ? 

Farmer M. Too sure, too sure. 

Michael. How did you find out, sir ? 

Farmer M. Why, one day, as I was sitting under 
that fine oak yonder, up conies a little gipsy-girl with 
one of my neck-handkerchiefs round her head : I 

could swear to the handkerchief, I bought it at 

when I went to see my sister : I looked at the girl, 


104 


THE HISTORY OF 


and she said very boldly, “ Cross my hand, sir, ’t is n’t 
too late. You’re a handsome man, sir, and there’s 
a pretty lady in this village as fancies ye. Will I 
show ye the first letters of her name, the color of her 
hair?” While she talked this nonsense, I said, 
“You’d like a bit of bread and cheese : stand here 
by the gate, I ’ll bring it you.” I went in ; told Wil- 
liam to watch and follow her ; and taking a good strong 
party, in case of mischief, and a legal officer to appre- 
hend her, I returned to my friend, who promised the 
pretty lady. I gave her a draught of my strongest 
beer, and the promised bread and cheese ; crossed her 
hand with a shilling, and proved how little she spied 
into futurity. She gave me riches, and the lady, and 
the rent-roll of the next manor ; and, if I had not bid- 
den her good night, I should soon have been in my 
coach and six. William knew where the camp was 
pitched, and soon followed the light-footed and light- 
headed gipsy. His men lay in ambush, and he went 
forward with a careless air, keeping the legal officer 
near. He walked up to the tent, where many were 
stretched at ease, covered with my coverlids ; and the 
old don was dressed in one of my striped waistcoats. 
He looked surly enough, and William gave a double 
whistle : all my men, all Farmer Newton’s and a 
dozen more, surrounded the tent. “ That ’s your man, 
Mr. Gifford ; I ’ll swear to my master’s striped waist- 
coat.” Now the watchword went round, and up start- 
ed the sturdy clan. “ Off, gentlemen,” said Mr. 
Gifford ; “ beware how you resist the law : it will be 
worse for ye. If this old gentleman can prove how 
this waistcoat came into his possession, and if honest- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


105 


ly, he will be honorably acquitted ; if guilty, let him 
look to ’t.” 

A gruff fellow now swung along his ragged figure, 
wrapped up in one of the coverlids, and then, as if he 
recollected himself, let it drop, saying, “ Well, Mr. 
Limbo, I can hand ye to the man who brought us the 
gear.” A squalid woman, sitting with her pipe, said, 
“ That ’s what ye can, Samson.” 

There was a confused look about this man. Wil- 
liam said, he liked him the least of the party : how- 
ever, his offer to produce the man had no effect on 
the officer, for he only replied, “ I shall lodge the old 
gentleman safely *and return to you in half an hour.” 
William ran home to tell me how they had sped ; and 
I was just rejoicing in the breaking up of the camp, 
when our poor old clerk, Westrip, came, looking the 
color of the church-walls, and wiping his eyes — “ O 
master ! that 1 should ever live to see it ; to have the 
king’s officers after my own sister’s son, after Jem. 
Oh ! sir, it ’s as true as daylight, clear and clean. 
Sir, ’t is he as have robbed your bucking. Sir, ’t is 
he. I have put it altogether, sir ; ’t is he. If he had 
told me where he had a been, when I missed on him 
so long, I’d a been satisfied ; but it ’s all clear, sir. 
Oh! the shame. Well, thank God as my mother’s 
dead ! and all my family ’s dead.” 

You may suppose how I was distressed, and how I 
am distressed. Oh ! Michael, I would n’t hang any- 
body ; and to hang Jem, the curly-headed boy as I 
ha’ seen holding by his tidy grandmother’s apron times 
and often — if I’m the death of that boy, I shall 
never know a bit of peace again. 


106 


THE HISTORY OF 


Michael. Sir, I do not believe this boy is guilty. 

Moss. God bless thee, Michael, for that hope. 

Michael. No, sir. I should like to see Samson. 

Moss. That you may easily do ; for he is in cus- 
tody on suspicion. The officer thought ill of him ; 
and when the trial comes on, and witnesses are ex- 
amined, he ’ll be brought up to give the evidence he 
says he can give. In the meantime, where Jem can 
be I cannot think ; and if he is innocent, why he ran 
away I cannot think. 

Michael. If you approve, sir, I should like to go 
to Mr. Lascelles and consult with him. 

Moss. Do, Michael ; but first, Lffi, have a glass of 
ale. 

Michael. But not gipsy ale, if you please, sir. 

Moss. No, lad, no. Here, take a biscuit and a bit of 
the Brow Farm cheese ; ’t is along time since thee’st 
tasted it. And so, Michael, you think the poor boy 
Jem’s innocent ? 1 ’d be glad to tell old Westrip of it. 

Michael. If you please, sir, after my judgment, 
we ’d best see Mr. Lascelles first. 

Moss. Ay, true, Michael. 

Michael. Sir, do you know the exact time you lost 
the clothes ? 

Moss. Yes, I do ; and I suppose Westrip can tell 
when Jem came back to him ; I dare say he can. 

Michael went to Mr. Lascelles : he was engaged 
with company. Michael sighed as he heard it. — 
“ Couldn’t I speak to him in the evening ?” — “ No,” 
was the abrupt reply from a lackey crossing the hall 
with a loaded tray. “ What does that young man 
want ?” said a very good-looking man, who met him. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


107 


“ Only, sir,” said Michael, “ to have that slip of paper 
delivered to Mr. Lascelles, and to be allowed to wait 
here for his answer.” He had written these words : 
“Michael Kemp, the poor boy whom Mr. Walker 
spoke for to Mr. Lascelles, would be glad to speak to 
him on a matter of life and death.” 

Instantly Mr. Lascelles was in the hall. After kind 
notice of him, he said, “ Well, young man, are you 
come about poor Westrip’s nephew V* — “ Yes, sir.” 
— “ But where is he 1 do you know ?” — “ Yes, sir, I 
do. He is under the same roof with me.” — “ Is he 
so ? well, then I begin to hope better things : but, 
young man, 1 have in the dining-room friends whose 
advice may be useful to you and he stepped toward 
the room. 

In about five minutes the bell rang. “ Desire Mr. 
Kemp to walk in. Now you may tell your tale to 
that gentleman.” 

He did so, and related all Jem’s story ; dwelling 
particularly on that part where he discovered Samson 
to be Robert ; and then related the manner in which 
Robert had left his master’s house. 

Mr. Lascelles. It is very clear to me now ; and his 
poor uncle has suffered so much, that I should like to 
send for him. 

Michael said, “ If, sir, I may be permitted to offer 
my opinion, Jem ought to be kept a short time in sus- 
pense, because he really is not frightened much, and 
I want to see him in more fear of bad company.” 

“ Bravo ! bravo ! my lad,” said the counsellor, 
“ that is sound policy : a month in the house of cor- 
rection would do that boy good.” 


108 


THE HISTORY OF 


Michael. I think, sir, a month at the Valley Farm 
would do as well ; he is kept close through fear of 
being caught, and he never liked confinement. 

Westrip soon came, looking ghastly pale, and when 
he saw Michael he shuddered. “ Come, my good 
Westrip, here ’s good news for you ; take this glass 
of wine.” — “ Good news, sir ? no, sir, no more good 
news for me, sir and the poor old man sunk in a 
fainting fit. He was carefully raised and laid on a 
couch in the study ; his wife sent for, and medical 
help. They watched him carefully, and returning 
reason repaid their care ; yet his first words were — 
“No more!” And Mr. Floyd said, no explanation 
could be of use then , and whatever was told him must 
be carefully told. It was the sight of Michael which 
had so distressed him ; the comparison between that 
youth and his poor Jem : the one respected even by 
the company present, and the other a desolate wan- 
derer. A few hours passed and the matter was 
gently unfolded, and he desired to see Michael ; who 
went and comforted his aged heart so judiciously, 
that what was feared was averted : hope revisited his 
bosom, and he wept, and looked for the time when 
he should again see his poor wild Jem, and see him 
without a sigh. 

Michael returned to the farm ; looked at his old 
horse Bonny, and then repaired to the kitchen ; but 
the farmer was patiently waiting for him in the inner 
room, and when he heard his voice, called out, “ Mi- 
chael, lad, come, come here, I want to know” — “ Yes, 
sir.” The whole being related to Farmer Moss, he 
laughed, and shook his head, observing, “ You young 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


109 


rogue, Michael, you young rogue, you knew more 
about it than I did, and stood so innocent ; oh, you sly 
fellow. [And again Farmer Moss laughed.] But 
why did n’t you tell me ?” 

Michael. Sir, I wanted to hear your part of the 
story, that I might know how to believe Jem. 

Farmer M. Very good, very good ; and it all agrees ; 
the boy ’s innocent — I ’d lay my life the boy ’s inno- 
cent. 

Michael. Of the robbery, sir, I ’ve no doubt. 

Farmer M. Humph ! of the robbery. 

Michael. But he lived six weeks with these people. 

Farmer M. Ay, that ’s bad. 

Michael. Yes, sir, it is; no mind of a right cast 
would willingly have remained so long. I would 
have Jem acquitted, but I would make his steady re- 
form sure before I accepted him, or showed him fa- 
vor : I would let the law take its course, and circum- 
stances unfold naturally : this is Mr. Lascelles’s advice. 

Farmer M. Mr. Lascelles is a nice man. I love 
him ; I owe him a great deal, my boy [the farmer rose 
to shut the door, and lowering his voice] : My mind 
is quite altered, Michael : I thinks well of all religious 
people, no matter to me now what they are, poor or 
rich, I love them if they love God, and believe in Him 
whom he hath sent. 

Michael. Oh, my dear master ! I do rejoice to hear 
this. 

Farmer M. It ’s very true. “ The wind bloweth 
where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, 
but canst not tell whence it cometh.” And however 
I came to believe, I cannot say : it must be God’s 


110 


THE HISTORY OF 


own doing, Michael. For I hated religious people ; I 
hated the education of the poor ; I hated Sunday- 
schools ; and I shall never forget that Sunday night 
that I first saw Mr. Lascelles, how ashamed 1 was 
of having prayers in my house. Wretched, ungrate- 
ful creature ! I, who had all my heart’s desire, plenty 
and prosperity. 

Michael. Ah, master ! we are ungrateful creatures 
by nature. 

Farmer M. We are, indeed, my boy. — But come, 
it ’s time you should go to bed. 

Michael went, after a light repast. He said noth- 
ing of prayers, for he thought Mr. Moss might not like 
to have prayers before him that evening. Religion 
had made this boy feeling and delicate ; his prayer 
had been answered, he had been blest and a blessing. 

The following morning Michael sought to find his 
old associate William : he was indeed glad to see 
Michael, and greeted him most heartily ; adding, 
“ Poor Jem ! I counts as ye be main sorry for en : he 
was a merry lad, but I thinks as there was no harm 
in him.” 

In William’s sense of harm Michael agreed ; yet 
he thought, as he wished William well, he would 
make a distinction. 

Michael. I do not think Jem would steal ; but I 
know he was always ready with a lie, and I never saw 
him careful to keep the sabbath holy : and as our 
master did not swear, but was decent in his conduct, 
he could not be profane, and call on God to punish 
him to all eternity ; which prayer, so often repeated, 
will be heard, to the horror of many a careless soul. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


Ill 


William. What prayers, Mr. Kemp 1 

Michael I mean the common oath. Awful words ! 
uttered in asseveration of things which never happen. 
If these desires are granted, these shocking prayers 
heard, who shall say that sufferings thus repeatedly 
asked for are not justly granted ? 

William. Oh ! Mr. Kemp, often and often have 1 
said those words ; but do you think my swearing pray- 
ers will be answered ? 

Michael. Not if you feel the sin, and humble your- 
self before the Lord, and have a horror of oaths and 
curses. I have heard boys not ten swear with rapid- 
ity, boys whose only prayers were oaths, and I have 
marked that such boys always beat the cattle most 
unmercifully, and cheated their masters in every way : 
few farmers know the harm their bad conduct does 
themselves. Our master was strict, but he was just ; 
he would not lie. I never saw him drunk ; and as for 
swearing, you know, William, he never swore if he 
was ever so angry. Well, God has given him the 
love of his fellow-creatures and to his own soul. Our 
master is now a Christian in deed and in truth. He 
seeks only to live so as he may live for ever ; and he 
would be afraid to ask anything at God’s hand which, 
if granted, would plunge him in misery without end. 

Michael returned to this, because he wished Wil- 
liam to remember and feel what he had said about 
cursing and swearing. 

Farmer Moss was up, and no nurse looks more 
fondly after her charge than th§ Farmer did after this 
good lad. 


112 


THE HISTORY OF 


Farmer M. Johanna, where ’s Michael ? 

Johanna. I see ’d him with William, sir. 

Farmer M. Ay ; he ’ll be looking after ye all. No 
pride, ye see, Johanna. 

Johanna. Not a bit, sir. 

Farmer M. And yet, ye see, how genteel he looks ! 

Johanna. That he do, sir ; no lord, like, could be 
better to see to. And then, sir, Mr. Michael is so 
good ; he ’s all for the heart, sir ; the inside, sir, that ’s 
what Mr. Michael always says as God looks upon. 

Farmer M. True, Johanna. 

By this time Michael returned to the house, and 
the farmer began — “ Oh, Michael ; have you heard 
from Fanny, your nice sister 1 I told her I thought 
she might suit at the Valley Farm.” 

Michael. Yes, sir, Mrs. Finch is so kind as to 
promise to try her ; and in two or three weeks she is 
to come. 

Farmer M. I hope they ’ll be kind to her. 

Michael. Oh ! sir, I have no doubt of that ; for 
Mrs. Finch has the kindest maimer. 

Farmer M. Ay, did n’t I tell thee, Michael, what 
a nice woman my sister was ? 

Michael. Indeed, sir, I am under great obligations 
to you and to her : to you for recommending me, and 
to my mistress for the kindness and consideration with 
which she always treats me. 

Farmer M. As to being obliged to me, Michael, 
that ’s nothing ; I sent you there to do them good, and 
you have. My sister says you are perfect : but you 
and I have learned better, thank God for that ! 

Michael. Thank God ! indeed, sir. I never saw 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


113 


any person more discreet and wise than my mistress ; 
so equal in her temper, it ’s a pleasure to live with 
her : and I always think of Cornelius the centurion 
when I think on her. I doubt not but her “ alms and 
her prayers will rise for a memorial before Heaven.” 
She is quite a blessing to the poor, sir. 
r Farmer M. Dear creature ! [weeping] she has the 
natural touch of kindness. 

Michael. Yes, sir, she has indeed ; and I think 
she is by no means puffed up with any good she does. 
It is a very pleasing sight to see her with her two 
children in the evening : Miss Jemima, with her work, 
and James reading the Lessons for the day and the 
Psalms. 

Farmer M. Oddz-so ! Do they, Michael ? I’m 
glad of that : poor dears ! poor dears ! I hope they ’ll 
take to a religious life. 

Michael. Our clergyman ’s a very moral man, sir ; 
and he ’s very fond of Mrs. Finch ; she says she is an 
example to all farmers’ wives. Such very nice order 
in her house, and her servants hired from year to 
year : and when they have stayed three years, she 
gives them one pound ; and when six, two pounds : 
and so on. She gives no better wages than others ; 
but she says, long service and faithful service merit 
reward. 

Farmer M. Michael, it does my heart good to hear 
it. What sort of a young person is Jemima ? 

Michael. A very nice young lady, sir, and I believe 
is pretty much sought after by the rich farmers’ sons : 
but her mother says, unless she has any very great re- 
10 * 


114 


THE HISTORY OF 


gard for some one, she should wish her to wait ; so 
that at present no person appears preferred. 

About noon Mr. Lascelles came. He inquired how 
long Michael was to stay. He replied, he could wish 
to return soon, but not till he had seen Samson. “ Pray, 
sir,” said he to his master, “ did William see Samson?” 

Farmer M. He ’s like enough, lad, for he was there 
when they took him off in a cart ; for he swore he 
could n’t walk. 

Michael. And where is he, sir ? 

Farmer M. In custody, till we can tell what to do 
with him. 

Mr. Lascelles. That is my business with you this 
morning, Mr. Moss. I am thinking of having that 
fellow brought up to my house ; and I wish you, Mr. 
Kemp, to be present, and you, Mr. Moss. Could you 
swear to the person of Robert, your old servant ? 

Farmer M. I should wonder if I could n’t. His 
hair is as white as flax ; he has a fair skin ; a wide 
mouth. He is broad set ; has two marks as he ’ll 
carry to his grave : one as he caught in the rat-trap, 
on his fore-finger, when he was after something in 
one of the closets ; and a bite from one of the horses, 
on the left arm, for he always used the cattle very 
badly. 

Mr. L. Come, come, these are pretty sure marks; 
we shall have him yet. 

Not to weary the reader with tedious descriptions, 
we will only take him to the servants’ hall, at the 
rectory, and introduce him to Mr. Lascelles, as mag- 
istrate, and the butler, as his clerk, seated at a small 
desk, where his master, with all his natural dignity, 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


115 

I 

and a large portion of assumed severity, ordered in 
the prisoner. The constable who had him in charge, 
and an arch, strong fellow, to whom every child in 
the village was perfectly known, came bringing in 
their unwilling captive. Moss jumped up and looked 
aghast : — 

“ Oddz-so ! it can’t be, it can’t be ; a black fellow ! 
O dear !” And the poor man looked as though he 
would say, “ Poor Jem will be hanged yet.” 

“ Please, my good friend,” said a gentleman who 
was there, “ a word with you. A bit of sponge, and 
that scratch-wig off, will bring about a change. But 
d/ you rest : no man in England is to be prejudged ; 
every one is supposed innocent till he is proved 
guilty.” 

Farmer M. True, sir ; thank you, sir. 

The reader must remember that the phantom of 
Jem’s hanging was rarely absent from his mind five 
minutes together, and the most delightful sensation 
rose with the hope of his innocence. 

Mr. Lascelles began : “You have offered volunta- 
rily to swear to the person who stole sundry articles 
of wearing apparel from the Brow Farm. What is 
your name ?” — “ Samson Gwynn.” — “ Enter that 
name, Robinson.” — “Yes, sir.” — “ Samson Gwynn, 
where is the person whom you accuse ?” F or the 
first time, the prisoner looked up, squinting horribly. 

“ There ’s one or two here as can answer that better 
than I can. Bring him here, and I ’ll swear.” 

“ There are persons here who will swear to you ; 
but first let the cook bring a sponge and a basin of . 
soapsuds, Robinson.” — “ Yes, sir” 


116 


THE HISTORY OF 


And now the sturdy rogue began to twitch, and look 
about for escape. Just then Farmer Newton, who 
had been sent for, entered with William. “ Good 
morning, sir. Is this your gipsy beggar, sir ?” 

Mr. L. Yes ; and as he has not lately been washed, 
nor had his hair dressed, we are about to give him 
this refreshment. 

The cleansing began by main force. The wig was 
thrown out of window ; and the eyebrows and hair, 
though short, shone in primitive silver. The hands 
and arms cleansed, the two marks appeared in all 
their pristine form ; and, by the help of a box of salt of 
lemons, the face took its natural hue, and in the fright 
the squint was forgotten : and again the abject boy 
fell prostrate, and howled “ O Lord ! O Lord !” Not 
one heart compassioned, not one voice pitied till Far- 
mer Newton said, “ Ay, Robert, my words become 
true : thee ’It be hanged at last.” — “ God forbid !” 
ejaculated Moss ; for hanging was the horror of his 
mind : and that for his goods a life should be cut off, 
a soul lost — “ Oh ! no, no ; God forbid !” and he 
turned his agonized looks to the wall. 

Mr. L. We must commit the prisoner, Robinson. 

The pretended Samson was fully committed to take 
his trial at the next quarter session. 

Mr. Lascelles now turned to Moss : “ My good 
friend, quiet your fears, and rest assured this lad will 
not he hung, but, I suppose, transported. You can 
have no objection to that? You shall come in with 
me, and take a glass of wine.” He went in ; and 
_ being convinced that such a boy as Robert could not 
come to good in England, began to hope Botany Bay 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


117 


might mend his manners ; and he rested in that hope. 
— The end of Michael’s journey being now answer- 
ed, he told the farmer he must go home next day. 

Farmer M. And what shall hinder me from going 
to see my own sister, Michael ? and her daughter and 
her son ? 

Michael. Nothing, sir ; nothing, I hope. I little 
expected such a pleasure when I set out. 

Farmer M. But, Michael, man, thee’st seen noth- 
ing at all. Not one walk down the village ; not one 
call at the new school ; not one peep at the work- 
house ; not one look at my new garden ! No, Mi- 
chael ; you shall not go till Friday. Does my sister 
expect you ? 

Michael. No, sir ; she does not expect me till Sat- 
urday. 

Farmer M. Well, then, stay you must. 

This was hardly fixed, before a message came from 
Mr. Lascelles, that if Mr. Kemp was not gone, he 
should be very glad to speak with him. 

When Michael came, he said, “ I hope, Mr. Kemp, 
you will do all you can to quiet your good master’s 
mind. I should be as sorry as he would that death 
should be the sentence ; but I own I wish the boy 
transported. Such an example is useful in such a 
parish as this, where the people are in a sad state of 
neglect, from non-residence, and the lax government 
of the farmers, who are never awake to misrule till 
they feel it by destruction in their hedges and their 
trees, beside more glaring depredations. I do not 
send for you to speak of my own regulations, but I 
want you to see how much may be done by a little 


118 


THE HISTORY OF 


care and patience ; and as I have no doubt you will 
one day be a farmer, I wish you to see the change 
which steady, loving, hand-in-hand industry will pro- 
duce.” 

They first walked round the churchyard. Every 
tombstone was in order ; the wall was in complete 
repair ; new gates ; the walk round, broad, and rolled. 
But how was Michael surprised to see a neat, square 
building, with two wings, broad gravel court, and sev- 
enty children, neatly dressed, at play ! 

“ This is my school on the Enmore plan. I am 
delighted with our progress : but we have no time for 
showing you this, further than the outside. A little 
beyond, where there had been a dilapidated barn, was 
a long room, with four fireplaces. It would admit 
twenty round each fireplace, being on the plan of the 
Oxford kitchen grates, very shallow and wide. This 
room I devote to my old men and women, to my weak 
women and girls. Here I have a flax-spinning and a 
weaving manufactory. All my people are paid every 
Saturday, and no one need come who does not choose 
it ; but then I allow no one to buy my cheap cloth 
who does not help in the manufactory. My children 
come here, and have spun merrily last winter. When 
it is damp, and they cannot take other exercise, away 
to my spinning-school !” The street, which was for- 
merly quagmire, was now a nice gravel road. Every 
cottage in repair, and jessamine and roses in plenty. 
Just then they came up to Mrs. Priddle’s door ; and 
indeed it was a sad sight to see how vice tramples 
down its votaries. Poor Mrs. Priddle was this morn- 
ing selling the scanty remnant of her goods. As they 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


119 


passed, a very tawdry-looking woman brushed, as 
though she would pass ; but Michael, turning round, 
saw Cicely Jones, and was about to address her, when, 
with an an indignant toss, she said, “ No, Mr. Kemp, 
I do n’t wish to be hanged ; two out of one house is 
enough. I hopes as you be satisfied.” 

Poor Michael was so shocked, that Mr. Lascelles 
stepped back, and rising in dignity as he rose in an- 
ger, stopped the bold insulting woman, and awed her 
with a look under which even Cicely quailed. 

“ Stop,” said Mr. Lascelles, “ where do you live 
now ?” — “ I, sir ; I ?” — “ Yes ; where do you live ?” 
— “I lodges here, sir.” — “ This woman is going 
away ; you cannot live here ; this is my house ; I 
have bought it. Persons who have no visible means 
of support are obliged to give an account ; they are 
sometimes dangerous, and always suspected persons. 
Persons who are abusive in the streets are amenable 
to the laws ; persons who injure the characters of 
their neighbors are liable to punishment.” She was 
going. “ What do you mean by saying ‘ two in one 
house is enough V What do you mean by saying 
‘ you do n’t want to be hanged V ” She attempted to 
go. At this moment poor old Westrip went by. 
“ Westrip,” said Mr. Lascelles, “ stop one moment, 
while this woman hears what you have to say. What 
do you think of this young man ?” — “That he ’s been 
a comfort to my poor old heart, sir ; and saved my 
poor foolish boy.” — “ Do you think, if Robert comes 
to be hanged, Mr. Kemp had any hand in it V* — 
“ No, sir, no ; but I believe that woman had, for ma- 
ny ’s the pound she has got through Robert’s sly ways, 


120 


THE HISTORY OF 


watching while she cheated her master. But he ’s 
forgiven her, and that’s no business of mine.” 

Not a word, not a look ; but sullen and terrified she 
stood. “ May God forgive thee !” said Mr. Lascelles. 
“ Never let me see you in this village, unless in ser- 
vice.” She was glad to go : no one stopped her. 

A new walk by the river, winding to the church and 
rectory, pleased Michael beyond expression ; and had 
he been inclined to talk on inferior subjects, he could 
not, for Mr. Lascelles, willing to cast far from his 
mind the wretched subjects which had occupied it, 
looked on the river, rippling to the breeze, and the 
lovely fertile vale ; the old and ruined mansion of the 
’squire, the church (ivy-grown), the Brow Farm, and 
many others in different positions : turning to Michael, 
he said, “ ‘ The lot is fallen to me in a fair ground !’ ” 

“ Yes, indeed, sir ; — 

( Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow, 

Amid the verdant landscape flow.’ ” 

“ How naturally do we turn disgusted from malice, 
from lies, and insincerity! To the renewed mind 
these sins are hateful. It has often struck me what a 
constant suffering our loving, lovely Savior must have 
experienced, in living with beings depraved and gone 
astray — in knowing every thought of every heart. 
Only think of the love and patience displayed in such 
a state ! Could we ever keep our hearts reflecting 
on his glorious perfection, it would smooth our rugged 
path, it would soften our irritable feelings, and bring 
us in humble adoration to the Cross, and to faithful 
reliance on Him, who crowned a life of forbearance 
with a death of agony, for us men, and for our salva- 


MICHA.EL KEMP. 


121 


tion. Let us pass this, and view the rising Lord of 
life and glory meekly joining his mourning and scat* 
tered disciples : let us look on that wonderful display 
of power in the resurrection ; let us consider the as- 
cending God ! O my Christian lad ! let us ever bear 
in mind that he will so come in like manner as we 
have seen him go. Why is it that human science 
tends to harden us ? — pride is at the root. Where- 
fore is it that those most frequent in attendance on 
sickness and death so little feel its portentous conse- 
quences ? — the pride of the healing art, and the hur- 
ried succession from one sick-bed to another, shut out 
reflection, and too frequently it is unpleasing to the 
medical attendants to hear the sound of eternity in the 
sick room ; whereas, to the prepared soul, it is the 
loveliest landscape, the most perfect view, on which 
the eye ever rested. Glory ! O inconceivable thought ! 
And to live in sweet anticipation, with peace on the 
earthly border, fellow-travellers, in His own house, 
and many more occasionally joining, and taking sweet 
counsel — Oh, Mr. Kemp ! this is bliss to which the 
world is a stranger. Surely, surely, we have a good- 
ly heritage !” 

Michael was about to reply, when two sweet girls, 
healthful and happy, caught each a hand of their de- 
lighted father. The servant said, “ If you please, la- 
dies, shall I take your baskets and the book ?” “ Oh 

yes, Phoebe.” 

Mr. Lascelles. What have you found ? any new 
flower 1 

Ladies. O yes, papa ; yes. 

Michael seeing the young ladies engaged with their 
11 


122 


THE HISTORY OF 


father, advanced respectfully, and said, “ I humbly 
thank you, sir, for all your condescending goodness 
to me.” 

Mr. Lascelles looked on him benevolently : “ God 
bless you, young man ! keep your conscience tender ; 
and may the angel of his presence be with thee !” 

We must spare the reader the languor of a journey 
over an old road. Farmer Moss and his companion 
travelled pleasantly ; one subject warmed their hearts, 
and the farmer saw everything with new delight ; and, 
oh ! how differently did he view the place from which 
Finch started the night he was killed ! Here, thought 
he, the poor creature took his last farewell of all earth- 
ly ! And where, where is the soul ? He cried like 
a child. Michael came up with him, and looked con- 
cerned. “ I ’ll tell thee, lad, I ’ll tell thee, Michael, 
by-and-by.” — “ My dear master, are you well ?” — 
“Yes, Michael. When we are on forward I’ll tell 
thee.” — “ Do, sir, pray : if I can do anything” — 
“ No, thee canst not ; no and here his fellow-trav- 
eller wept anew. 

Michael hesitated, and was riding in the farmer’s 
track, admiring the singular loveliness of the setting 
sun on the changing foliage, when suddenly the farmer 
called, “ Michael, lad, I want to go in cheerful ; and 
so I sha’n’t talk now : but sometime afore I go home 
I ’ll be glad to talk about them as is gone 

They drew near the Valley Farm : some of the 
workmen passing, ran back to tell the family ; and the 
inmates came running out, with gladness in their looks, 
to welcome the unexpected visiter. How cheerfully 
the evening passed in the parlor, may well be im- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


123 


agined. Michael was anxious to see Jem, and to 
ease his mind as to the hanging ; but, for the other 
part, he meant to make him feel how near his poor 
uncle was to become the victim of palsy, from the 
horror with which he was seized while the search 
was making after his nephew, and his continued agi- 
tation, while he feared for his life. 

Jem heard it with much more concern than he had 
expected ; and though he thought it right to keep him 
awake to past imprudence, yet he felt so gratified that 
the boy was affected with his uncle’s indisposition, that 
he was not disposed to press the matter too closely at 
that time. But when Jem, on the following morning, 
said, “ I am glad it is over,” Michael perceived how 
difficult it was to make a lasting impression on a 
light mind ; and he replied, with his usual energy, 
“ James, the trial is not over ; there were many in that 
company who bore you ill-will.” Jem felt the rebuke, 
and was silent. 

The farmer, in the course of the morning, was 
planning and consulting with his sister what to do 
with Jem. It was settled, if Stephen and his friends 
would consent to it, that Stephen should go to the 
Brow, and Jem remain at the Valley. And in order 
to make the change agreeable to Stephen, he was to 
have his wages raised. Stephen was called up from 
his daily employment, and bid to go into the parlor. 
When he entered, the door was closed. He had been 
so much in the habit lately of being busy with his 
own mind, and had seen so much reason to doubt 
himself, that his first idea was, “ What is the matter ? 
what have I done “ Stephen,” said his mistress, 


124 


THE HISTORY OF 


“ you have been a*good lad : I should be glad to be 
of use to you.’’ Stephen bowed. “ My brother is 
willing to take you : he will advance your wages.” 
The boy looked thunderstruck. “Are you angry 
with me, mistress ?” — “ No, indeed, Stephen. Do 
you think your father and mother will have any objec- 
tions ?” — “ O, mistress, I could not go !” — “ Poor 
boy !” said Moss, “ he ’s got a feeling heart. I sees 
it ; he don’t like to leave his old mistress.” The boy 
was honest ; he did not choose it should rest there. 
M No, sir ; mistress has been very good to me ; and, 
besides, there ’s Mr. Kemp, sir ; I ’ve been so used to 
work under him.” — “ Oh ! Mr. Kemp ; that ’s it ?” 
said the farmer ; “ well, boy, what has he done for 
thee ?” for the farmer longed to hear some of Mi- 
chael’s praises. “ Sir,” said he, “ he has shown me 
the right way to do everything. I am sure I never 
knew the use of my Bible till he come here ; and now 
I finds a bit for everything ; and I ’s never without 
company in my own thoughts. Oh ! I don’t think I 
could leave Mr. Kemp, mistress, of my own will ; and 
I pray you not to name it to father, afeard he should 
be consentin’, and desire me to go ; and then, ye 
know, I could n’t go clear against duty.” 

All this while Farmer Moss listened with evident 
satisfaction. “ The boy is quite in the right, sister : I 
should be just like him if I were in his place. I ’m 
sure it went to my heart to part with Michael ; and I 
had not such good reasons as this boy, though I’ve 
got them now, boy [nodding] : and if you are one of 
the little children Jesus Christ speaks of, here, take 
my hand, for we are both of one heart and one mind.” 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


125 


Mrs. Finch stared : she thought her brother very much 
altered ; greatly improved in some respects ; but that 
he should shake hands with one of her servants seem- 
ed out of place, and she was sorry for it. 

As soon as the boy was out of the room (and glad 
enough he was to get out), “ What an uncommon-look- 
ing lad that is ! why, sister, you are main lucky, I can 
tell ye and here the farmer’s heart smote him. <£ I 
should say, God has been very good to you. — Ah !” 
said he, muttering to himself, “ bad habits, bad habits ; 
old sinners ! Luck, indeed ! luck !” 

The tear was in Mrs. Finch’s eye, for she began to 
think there was something wrong about her brother’s 
head ; having heard him mutter all this in an under 
tone. “ My dear brother, shall we take a walk V 1 
" Yes, my dear, with all my heart. But, as I was 
saying, I do n’t think any farmer round the country 
can have two such lads as Michael and Stephen.” 

Mrs. Finch was relieved ; and she said, “ Well, 
now, my dear, let us walk. But, brother, what did 
you mean about old sinners, and luck ?” “ 0, my 

dear, I meant that there is nothing comes by luck ; it 
is all ordered by God. God sent Michael to you, my 
dear ; and he has changed the heart of Stephen : and 
God has changed my poor old heart. You know, 
sister, I always went to the church ; that is, my 
body went ; but my soul was in the field, and in the 
stable.” 

Here poor Mrs. Finch looked again. She sighed 
inwardly, but said no more. Farmer Moss felt the 
sigh : he understood it. “ Sister,” said he, “ there 
is a great change in me ; a great change for the bet- 
11 * 


126 


THE HISTORY OF 


ter, sister. God has granted me, hardened old fellow 
as I was, a new nature : I hope he will grant thee a 
new nature, sister. Read the third chapter of St. John, 
my dear : the Gospel, my dear. Oh ! that ’s a fine 
chapter ; that ’s what Mr. Lascelles calls the grammar.” 

Mrs. Finch calmly smiled ; and in her own mind 
she said, “ My poor dear brother ! he is not mad, but 
he has been among the enthusiasts.” — u Well, now, 
sister, it seems you have a man more than you know 
what to do with ; and we are no nearer about provi- 
ding for Jem. I thinks I should like to have a little 
conversation with Michael, and hear how the boy 
seems to take this business. ’ So the farmer put on 
his hat, and went to search for Michael. He had 
hardly got out of the yard before he met Williamson. 
“ Whtue is your master ?” “ He ’ll be in, zur, in a 

minute/’ stammered Williamson. It just then struck 
Moss that Williamson would be a good person to ques- 
tion as to Jem’s behavior during Michael’s absence : 
so he began. u What do you think of that Jem, chap, 
as came from the Brow ?” “ He ’s not, as I may say, 

zur, a Measter Kemp. He ’s a very fine boy, zur.” 
“ How did he behave while your master was away I” 
Why, he was like a spirit — neither ate, drank, nor 
slept : if he saw a strange man, he was off like a bul- 
let from a gun.” “ Ah ! ah !” said the farmer, “ that 
was right, sure enough.” 

Williamson stared, for he could see nothing right 
in what he had been describing ; for he knew nothing 
of Jem’s story. 

By this time Michael joined them. The tall far- 
mer laid his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “ Come, 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


127 


lad, I want to talk with thee !” and "Williamson, with 
a humble bow, and his natural satisfied grin, took his 
way to the house. 

Farmer M. Well, Michael, what are we to do 
with this Jem ? 

Michael. I’m sure, sir, I don’t know; that lies 
heavy on my mind. Jem ’s almost too much for me. 
There is but one way, sir, that I can think of ; and 
that is, if good Mr. Lascelles would take him into 
his service. 

Farmer M. That is a very good thought of yours, 
Michael. Well, I ’ll take him home on that specula- 
tion. I have not had one moment’s talk with thee, 
Michael. I ’d like to see the village-green, and those 
fine walnut-trees in which I always delighted. 

So they walked down ; and it being mid-day, they 
had the green to themselves. There, under the ver- 
dant canopy, seated quietly, Moss began : — 

Farmer M. I can’t forget my brother-in -law, when 
I come here. He was a good-natured man : I ’d fain 
hope he ’s gone to heaven : but ’t was so sudden. 

Michael. It was, indeed, sir (said he, very gravely). 

Farmer M. What do you think of it, Michael ? — • 
What do you think of it ? 

Michael. I think it was very shocking, sir. I think 
unprepared death is the most shocking thing. 

Farmer M. And so you think there is no hope that 
he is happy ? Poor soul ! Poor soul ! 

Michael. O dear, sir ! I should not dare to think 
with anything like certainty about it. It is dangerous 
to the living to think lightly of a sudden departure in 


128 


THE HISTORY OF 


the midst of sin ; and it would be presumption to doubt 
God’s mercy. My dear master, we must leave it. 

Farmer M. I believe we must, Michael ; for I don’t 
see as we can settle it. I can’t help thinking, some- 
times, as it would have been a good thing for him to 
have had somebody to speak to him. I think on him 
sleeping and waking, now I know the value of my 
own soul. And my poor sister, Michael, I don’t think 
as she knows much about the matter. 

Michael. I think, sir, that my mistress is faithful to 
the light she has, and I firmly believe as God will grant 
her more. 

Farmer M. That ’s a blessed thought to me, Mi- 
chael ; that ’s been a comfort to me, lad : and here the 
feeling Moss wept again. 

Michael. My dear master, I ’m a weak creature. 
I learned that lesson more perfectly in my confine- 
ment. When the Lord laid his hand upon me, I felt 
that my heart was even “ as melting wax.” ’T is all 
delightful where the sun shines, master ; but when 
God withdraws his smile, O the darkness of the hu- 
man soul ! He has been very gracious to me. What 
friends I have had ! what prosperity, sir ! 

Moss had it in his mind to say, “ Ay, boy ; you ’ve 
deserved it but he stopped with this reflection — 
“ what have we that we have not received ?” 

Farmer M. Then you think, Michael, as my poor 
dear sister is in the way to become a Christian ? 

Michael. Indeed, sir, I do. 

Farmer M. It ’s' good news, Michael ; the best 
news I could hear. We must leave them as is gone, 
Michael. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


129 


Michael. Indeed, sir, we must. 

They returned to the house ; and as they went, they 
saw Mrs. Fairbrother at her cottage-door, and the little 
tribe just let loose from confinement. 

Farmer M. O Michael, you haven’t got a national 
school here. The old dame is at the head of it still. 

Michael made no reply, for he had not forgotten 
Mrs. Fairbrother’s abuse. 

Farmer M. If I had seen Mr. Cooper, I ’d a been 
speaking to him about it, I think. 

Still Michael was silent. 

Farmer M. Why, you don’t seem to like these 
plans, Michael ? 

Michael. Indeed, master, I do. But I have no 
power in the place. You forget I am only a servant. 
And he then mentioned the ill-will he had incurred by 
only hinting at the new plan. 

Farmer M. O Michael, don’t you know we must 
pass through evil and good report 1 

Michael looked at him benevolently, and thought — 
“ How my master is changed ! When God becomes 
the teacher, who teacheth like him !” 

By this time they reached the Valley. As they 
went into the house, Moss said, in a half-whisper, to 
Michael, “You look up Jem, and be preparing him 
for his journey, Michael.” 

When Michael and Jem were alone together, Mi- 
chael informed him of Moss’s plan. Jem looked 
rather shy of it ; said he thought he could have done 
very well at the Valley, and that he thought Mrs. 
Finch liked him ; and at last betrayed a secret which 


130 


THE HISTORY OF 


had been lurking in his mind — that he thought Miss 
Jemima liked him ! 

Michael looked at him in unfeigned astonishment, 
at his vanity and his presumption ; and, in order to 
crush it instantly, he gave him the solid observation 
of Jemima upon his character. “ I heard Mrs. Finch 
observe to her daughter, that you were an active, 
clever boy ; and Miss Finch, with the good sense and 
discernment natural to her, said, ‘ Mother, that boy is 
quick. He thinks himself handsome ; he has very 
little principle ; he is not to be confided in ; and re- 
quires very firm authority to keep him in his place.’ 
I think she was right, Jem ; do n’t you ?” 

Jem made no reply, but pulled his shirt-sleeve over 
his knuckles. 

Jem. And so, Michael, you wish me gone 1 

Michael. Indeed I do. I think you want a kind 
master ; a man of years and authority. 

Jem. I sha’ n’t like to be under very much. 

Michael. You think you are fit to govern yourself, 
then ? 

Jem. No, I don’t say that neither. I know I be 
very foolish, and I know I am very much obliged to you 
for all the trouble you ’ve taken with me ; and I am 
very sorry as 1 told you what I had in my mind about 
Miss Jemima. 

Michael. I ’m not sorry for that ; I promise you 
never to mention it. Behave modestly ; keep your 
place. Go home quietly with your master, and follow 
all the advice he gives you. Depend upon it, I am 
too much your friend ever to betray you. 

This kind speech of Michael’s sunk into James’s 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


131 


heart with more impression, and bound him more 
closely. He looked up with an expression Michael 
had never seen in him before. He had been betrayed 
by his natural character, vanity, and lightness. He 
thought, and he thought truly, that he was a handsome 
boy ; and he fancied Miss Jemima admired him, be- 
cause he was on the lookout for admiration : so that 
every civil speech her humanity had pointed, he be- 
lieved to be an evidence of her partiality for him. 
But what Michael had told him had completely con- 
vinced him, and this folly of Jem’s was at an end ; 
and when Michael promised that it never should be 
mentioned, he felt as easy as though he had never 
betrayed himself. 

Michael. And now, my dear James, I have nursed 
you in sickness ; often have I prayed for you, and 
with you. I have exerted myself to bring you out of 
this trouble ; I hope you will be safe. Let me give 
you this parting advice : if all the advantages of 
marrying a person much above your station could be 
yours, depend upon it the event would not bring hap- 
piness. A man would feel too much obliged to a wife 
(if not ungrateful) who had raised him from a state of 
servitude to be master over property he had no natu- 
ral right to expect. No, my dear Jem; let me advise 
you : go on steadily for some years ; your good mas- 
ter has a kind plan for you. Be sure you behave 
yourself prudently ; above all things, my dear fellow- 
servant, do pray to God to keep you in his way. 
Read your Bible ; go to church regularly ; listen to 
the advice of Mr. Lascelles : and may God be with 
you, my dear James. 


132 


THE HISTORY OF 


For the first time in his life, Jem had nothing to 
say ; but he looked very grave, and Michael liked his 
manner. And it will be pleasing to the reader to 
know that this spring of hope respecting James, the 
first which had ever risen in the bosom of Michael, 
this spring was never cut off. At last the boy gained 
power to speak. 

Jem. I do love you, Michael ; you have been more 
than a brother to me. I will try to do as you desire 
me. 

Michael promised him a note to Mr. Lascelles ; and 
James departed with Farmer Moss, in lower, yet hap- 
pier spirits than he had risen with in the morning. 

“Fare thee well, my good Michael! and do not 
forget thy poor master were the last words Moss 
spoke, as Michael saw him out of the yard ; and Jem 
said, in a tone of the highest feeling, “ I owe you 
everything, Michael ; I owe you my life.” 




MICHAEL KEMP. 133 


CHAPTER Y. 

At the foot of the Pen-y-Vale hills stood the cot- 
tage of Meredith. It had been two tenements, and 
for want of repair was sinking fast into decay. The 
one in which Meredith lived was best defended from 
wind and rain ; but it had a corner-chimney, ill-built, 
and suffocating with smoke when the blast blew one 
way. This was an inconvenience borne heavily by 
the wife, who brought up seven fine babes by this one 
fireside, and whose pride lay in their bright hair and 
clean-washed clothes. William Meredith was head 
gardener to a gentleman in a neighboring parish, and 
the cottages in which he resided were on a small spot 
of ground belonging to his master, who had frequent- 
ly offered him a better cottage, near the Park : but he 
was greatly attached to his old residence, and he con- 
stantly preferred walking a mile to his work to any 
other spot. It was situated on about half-an-acre of 
ground, which was cultivated with the most sedulous 
care ; and though the cottage might be deemed a ruin, 
yet care, and a hod of mortar now and then, had made 
the ruin so very decent, that the ivy and roses bloom- 
ed in security on the well-cemented walls. 

Ellen Meredith was the best of wives. She had 
devoted herself, with all the powers of her soul, to 
William and the children. Never had children a 
12 


134 


THE HISTORY OF 


mother who doted on them more fondly, and never had 
mother a more lovely set of children. Her husband 
and herself were remarkable for their strength and 
activity, and in the eyes of each other were the flower 
of the parish where they lived. Ellen spun the flax 
her husband raised in small quantities, it is true ; but 
what will not patient industry effect ? Every child 
spun lambs’-wool, and knit its own stockings : and 
never did William Meredith’s babes leave home rag- 
ged or dirty. Ellen (for I must tell true) was proud of 
her husband, and proud of her children. JN ature had 
made them lovely, and it was her pride to adorn them. 
“ As white as Ellen Meredith’s home-spun,” and “ as 
clean as William Meredith’s piece,” were common 
bywords in this parish. Each of this decent pair had 
a hobby ; and each laughed at the other’s folly, as they 
called it. William collected every blue-looking stone 
he could find, and hoarded them in a corner of the 
ruined dwelling ; and Ellen had discovered a blue 
die with which she colored all her boy’s handker- 
chiefs : and when Ellen laughed at William’s blue 
stones, William laughed at Ellen’s blue die. Ellen 
spun her own thread and her own worsted. She set 
her children to various employments, according to 
their ages. 

In the evening, William heard his children read ; 
and as he sat, he generally threw a stone in the fire, 
and then Ellen would laugh ; and when she laughed, 
he would untie his blue handkerchief, and laugh in 
his turn. Years rolled round ; and every now and 
then a half-day was begged for labor at home, and 
some patch on the low dwelling, till not an aperture 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


135 


was left. One day, at the close of this patient labor, 
Ellen said, “Now, William, I hope you have finished 
my laundry outside ?” — “I have,” said William, “out- 
side” — “ Why, what may you be going to do ?” — 
“ Not to die it blue, Ellen.” (Ellen laughing) “ No, 
no ; I dare say. But you ’ll be paving it with blue 
stones, I’m thinking?” — “Now come here, Ellen, 
and see what I ’ll do with my blue stones.” He took 
an old plate, and pouring some water over it, Ellen 
was astonished to see the whole fall to powder. 

“ Now, father,” said the eldest boy, “ ye ’ve told 
mother your secret.” — “ Not all, Ned.” — “ No, not 
all,” said the rosy confident. 

In another corner of Ellen’s laundry lay some small 
stones, as nearly of a size as the children could collect 
them. “ And pray,” said Ellen, “ what are these for, 
here ?” 

The father and his boy laughed, and would not 
speak a word. 

Fifteen years of life had passed ere the patient 
husband had accomplished his purpose. The stones 
at which Ellen had so often laughed were laid with 
the nicest care ; and the interstices were filled with 
a composition of lime and sand : and now very grave- 
ly did William beg Ellen would confine herself to the 
sitting-room, and promise not even to look in at the 
window as she passed. William, the next boy, was 
also in his father’s confidence. He had kept the se- 
cret where the larch was gone, which lay seasoning 
two years ; and all the questions about the beautiful 
auriculas were evaded : the quantity of white Prov- 


136 


THE HISTORY OF 


ence roses, too, which had been reared with such 
care, where were they gone 1 and when ? 

“It’s a thievish country, mother,” said William. 
“ Ay, Willy,” said his mother : “ I know you and 
your father would never have been so quiet if you did 
not know pretty well where they were.” Willy said, 
“ Oh ! mother, you always think you know our busi- 
ness ; and I am sure you cannot say father or I ever 
does anything sly, but what is for yours and the chil- 
dren’s advantage.” Here young Ellen patted Willy’s 
cheek. “ The children, hey, Willy !” Willy laughed, 
and ran away. 

The week came which was to terminate Meredith’s 
labor : and at three o’clock one morning young Ellen 
ran into her father’s room — “ There ’s surely some 
one getting in !” — “ Nonsense, child,” said Meredith. 
“ Go to bed ; make yourself easy, my Ellen,” said her 
mother. “ I have no doubt but your father knows 
who ’s there, or he would not lie here like a coward, 
and hear that hammering.” 

Meredith feigned not to hear it ; and did not rise 
till all was quiet. When they rose at five, and had 
made the fire and finished the frugal meal — “ Now, 
my dear Ellen, come to the parlor, and see how you 
like it.” This worthy wife was indeed delighted ; 
and the noise she had heard was found to proceed 
from the glazier, who had been putting in a very nice 
casement. But nothing gave Ellen so much pleasure 
as the fireplace, with its corners for the kettle ; it was 
all plastered and whitewashed, and the ceiling com- 
plete. “ But, mother, only look at the floor !” — “ It ’s 
all beautiful, my dear ; it ’s like your nice father, and 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


137 


his nice boys. I ’m delighted with it all.” — “ Well, 
we will have something for dinner.” — “Mother,” 
said Rose, “ do you see the shelves, and the wooden 
closet, and the window-seat ?”•*—“ Ay,” said the hap- 
py Willy ; “ this is the larch, mother ; and the grate 
is the auriculas ; and the windows and the fire-irons 
are the Provence roses.” — “ Dear, good Willy,” said 
Rose, who doted on him, “ how he must have worked !” 
— “ That he has, indeed,” said his father ; “ and he 
shall have a new pair of shoes the first money I can 
spare.” — “Dear Willy!” said his mother, as she 
wound his curling auburn tresses round her finger, and 
looked on his lovely face. 

Just then Frank ran up. “Where’s the door?” 
Ellen took up her pet boy. “ Love thee babe, thee ’st 
more sense than all of us. Where is the door, 
Willy ?” — “ Mother, it ’s stopped up ; and father took 
in a bit to make that fine window. He said, it would 
be more lightsome, and that a window and door too 
would make it cold.” 

“ Now, my honest man, I have only one care ; I 
think you have labored for others.” 

“ No, my good wife : my master has given us the 
piece out and out ; signed and sealed it with his own 
hand. And this evening, wife, we must send for our 
Stephen from the Valley, and let the children be 
dressed ; for the lord and lady come to-night to see 
the piece and the cabin.” 

Ellen’s eyes glistened ; and young Ellen was sent 
to the Valley Farm, tojiray mistress to spare Stephen 
to come to the Level-bit , which was the name given to 
the half-acre granted to Meredith. 

12 * 


138 


THE HISTORY OF 


Moss had but just left the Valley, when young El- 
len, modestly courtesying, entered the porch. The 
inmates were passing, each to his own engagements, 
when Ellen begged to know if she might speak to 
Stephen Meredith. 

One of the maids said, “ I ’m sure I can’t tell you 
where he is. Mr. Kemp, sir, do you know where 
Stephen is ? The wench, his sister, wants him.” 

Michael turned round to speak to the girl, whose 
modest appearance struck him very much. The natu- 
ral grace of Ellen’s figure appeared , though her dress 
was of the plainest and the coarsest materials. But 
the scrupulous cleanliness in which Ellen had brought 
up all her children had given them that natural attrac- 
tion which every pure mind feels. 

Michael felt a sort of surprise at the girl’s appear- 
ance, and answered her inquiry for Stephen by a 
promise to send him down. 

Ellen dropped her courtesy, and went home. 

Michaelmas was now come, and Michael’s own 
Fanny had put all her wardrobe into a new deal-box, 
and had got a present from her mother, and a present 
from her father, and all was ready ; and she tripped 
to the rectory to take her leave of them, and to thank 
them for all their goodness, and to pray to know if 
they had any word for their Michael. 

Fanny was much beloved at the rectory ; and every 
female hand had been employed in making something 
that might be useful to her : and it was all put up 
neatly, and directed for “Fanny Kemp, waiting her 
arrival.” 

There is no doubt but Fanny was very grateful and 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


139 


pleased ; but this last kindness only made up the sum 
of their goodness, and every instance added, swelled 
the tide of Fanny’s sorrow for the parting hour; and 
strongly and painfully did she feel the separation. 

“ How do you go, my good girl ?” said Mrs. Walk- 
er. “ My father takes me, madam ; we are to have 

the carrier’s double horse as far as H ; then we 

are to walk ten miles, and to get on as we can.” 

Mr. Walker addressed Fanny, with that smile of 
benevolence which ever accompanied his advice : 
“ Be always clean , Fanny, never fine. Dress is the 
snare of young women. Never do anything without 
consulting your very worthy brother. Do not expect 
to be perfectly happy ; in every new place there are 
new trials. Read your Bible, my dear child.” 

Fanny stood twisting her pocket-handkerchief from 
one hand to the other, and courtesied at the end of ev- 
ery sentence ; the tears running down plentifully : 
and good morning, sir ; and thank you, madam ; and 
good-by , miss ; good-by , Master Edmund : and she 
took up her new blue box, and returned to her father’s 
cottage. 

He was looking out and getting impatient. “Fanny, 
child , it’s nine o’clock and past! We’ve twenty 
miles to ride double horse, and the beast must rest. I 
wish thee ’st taken leave last night. We shall be 
dark in at H .” 

Fanny said not a word. The children clustered 
round her : Joseph, and Jane, pet Sarah, and Samuel; 
and the dear mother, who could only say, “ Fanny, 
my comfort, be sure be guided by our Michael .” Not 
a word could Fanny speak. She embraced them all 


140 


the history of 


in turn ; and last, laying her head on her mother’s 
shoulder : then remembering her father was waiting, 
she clasped her closely and left the cottage. 

There was one piece of kindness on the part of 
Mrs. Walker which I omitted to mention: she consid- 
ered that when the father and Fanny got to the inn at 

H , the poor child would be overlooked, or, at 

least, badly accommodated ; so she gave her a letter 
which she desired her to deliver to the landlady. 

Little passed during the journey. They did not 

reach H till nine in the evening. Fanny got 

down in the inn-yard. Joseph Kemp sought a place 
for his horse, and was eyed by the smart ostlers with 
that impertinence common to low minds. Joseph was 
not a man to feel it, for his mind was pre-occupied : 
the care of his dear Fanny filled every avenue. He 
took her hand and led her to the house. 

They stood a considerable time waiting in the 
kitchen. At last a waiter said, “ What did you want, 
good man ?” Joseph Kemp replied, “We are come 
twenty miles, double horse, and we are tired ; and we 
could be glad of a place to sit down in:” and Fanny 
whispered her father, “We’d be glad of something to 
eat.” — “I’m sure I do n’t know where to put you,” 
said the waiter. “ Cook, can you let this man and 
his daughter sit here V* — “I ’m sure I wish there 
was no travelling people,” said the cook. The waiter 
turned round : “ Indeed, this is not a house for travel- 
ling people ” — “ I thought it had been,” said Joseph 
Kemp, quietly. Just then Fanny remembered the 
letter she had in her pocket, and said, “ Could I speak 
to the landlady ?” Her father gave her a push — 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


141 


“ No, Fanny !” — “ Indeed,” said the waiter, with a 
supercilious air, “ I. think my mistress is engaged with 
company ; and we can settle all the business as well 
without her.” 

Fanny’s spirit was entirely unchecked. The girl 
was not what could be called a proud girl ; but she 
had a natural talent for putting back every imperti- 
nence : and she replied, “ She had business with the 
landlady which she could not settle with her ser- 
vants. ,, Joseph stared, and Fanny pulled out her let- 
ter. The man was greatly surprised : said “ He did 
not think ; he did not know ; he could not say. His 
mistress might . He *d go and see if she could be 
spoke with.” Mrs. Jenks was a very important lady, 
and the idea of a letter to be delivered into her own 
hands filled her with many conjectures : she hoped it 
was good news. The waiter said it came by a girl 
who rode double horse behind her father. Mrs. Jenks 
was the very essence of everything that was elegant. 
She had rings on her fingers, necklaces round her 
neck, and ear-rings in her ears. She was in pure 
white, and came tripping along the passages in deli- 
cate kid shoes. She eyed Fanny with some surprise, 
took the letter, and read as follows : — 

“ Mrs. Jenks : The young person who delivers 
this letter is one whom I particularly esteem. I beg 
she and her worthy father may be accommodated with 
a comfortable sitting-room, good beds, a supper, and 
a breakfast, at our expense. I hope your poor mother 
is better, and that your little girl is gaining strength. 

“ Believe me your faithful, well-wisher, 

“P Rectory. S. Walker.” 


142 


THE HISTORY OF 


As Mrs. Jenks read this letter, the father and Fanny 
kept watching her eyes ; and Fanny observed the 
sharp look of her countenance gradually soften, and 
the smile succeed. “ Waiter !” — Yes, ma’am.” — 
“ There ’s a nice little room, number twelve.” — “Yes, 
ma’am.” — “You’ll show them into that room. And 

what would you like for supper, Mr. ?” — “A 

little bread and cheese will do well enough for us, 
ma’am.” — “ Ay, you need not think about it ; it ’s to 
cost you nothing. Madam Walker has sent her or- 
ders about that ; so I think I shall send in your sup- 
per. What o’clock do you go to-morrow ?” — “ At 
six, madam, we must be off.” 

Not to weary the reader’s patience, the landlady 
sent in a roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and tartlets : 
and Joseph Kemp observed to his daughter that it 
went against him to eat. This certainly was not the 
case with F anny : she made a most comfortable sup- 
per. But Joseph Kemp was so upright that he begged 
once more to see the landlady before he went to bed : 
and told her, if she pleased, he had rather pay for 
what they had had, for he could not bear to take the 
advantage of Mrs. Walker’s kindness. The landlady 
told him that could not be, for she should follow the 
order of the letter : “ and if,” said she, “ good man, 
what you have ate here troubles you, I do n’t mind 
telling you that Mrs. Walker’s father was the making 
of us ; and I am very glad of this opportunity to show 
her I do n’t forget it. Not a penny of either her mon- 
ey or yours will I ever see for this. Make yourself 
easy, honest man.” 

Two very comfortable beds were provided for the 


MICHA.EL KEMP. 


143 


travellers, and they went to sleep under the impres- 
sion of Mrs. Walker’s kindness and the landlady’s 
gratitude. 

Our travellers reached the Valley Farm, by the help 
of the honest carrier’s horse, and a stage-coach, and a 
few miles’ walking, at half-past nine in the morning, 
after having slept comfortably at the Blue Boar. They 
got in too late to see Michael, who was at some dis- 
tance with the people ; but Jemima was all kindness, 
though it was quiet kindness : and Mrs. Finch, who felt 
her obligations to the brother, did not suffer the sister 
to feel that she was in a strange country ; but, address- 
ing her with a look of kindness, took her blue bandbox 
from her hand, and asked “ if she had brought her 
other box to the Boar, or given any orders concerning 
it ?” Joseph Kemp said, “ I managed pretty well, 
madam ; for I inquired for one of your wagons, and 
they said one would be in to-day.” — “ That was 
right,” said Mrs. Finch ; “ that ’s just what I was 
thinking of. W e sent off a lad for your brother di- 
rectly,” said she to Fanny, whose eyes she saw were 
wandering in every direction. 

Michael was not long ere he returned ; and wheth- 
er joy or sorrow prevailed in Fanny’s mind, it is diffi- 
cult to say, for the poor child smiled through her tears. 
She clung to her father, she embraced Michael ; called 
him her own dear Michael, and told him more than 
once she had nobody but him now. He told her “ she 
would soon be comfortable, for Mrs. Finch was the 
kindest mistress, and Miss Jemima a very good young 
lady : and besides, my dear Fanny, I hope you know 
where to go for comfort ? Remember, the earth is the 
Lords’.” 


144 


THE HISTORY OF 


Mrs. Finch very kindly told Joseph Kemp that she 
had such a regard for his son, that she hoped he would 
stay as long as he could make it convenient. “ I am 
very glad, madam, to hear as my son gives you satis- 
faction. He has always been a dutiful boy, and un- 
common steady. I thank you, ma’am, if you ’ll give 
me the favor to sleep here to-night. I must be off to- 
morrow by then the birds whistle.” 

Michael took his father about with him, and Mrs. 
Finch took Fanny over the house, and told her 11 that 
all that, must be her care, for that Sarah had the 
care of the dairy, and was cook ; which, though she 
had a girl to assist her, was plenty of employment for 
one. My Jemima is a very useful girl, and you will 
find her hand in everything. I myself see to the linen, 
and always assist in the ironing ; and after having put 
you in the way, I shall depend on you for in-door 
comfort, as I do on your excellent brother for every- 
thing without.” 

Fanny courtesied, smiled with the tears in her eyes, 
listened attentively, and promised nothing. She said, 
“ If madam pleased, she should like to change, and 
make herself comfortable.” 

She was shown into a neat little light closet, in 
which Mrs. Finch, from regard and respect to her 
brother, had given her a small bed. 

And now, reader, behold our poor Fanny indulging 
the pleasure (natural to a young mind) of opening her 
bandbox, and examining for the first time the nice 
things given her at the rectory. She had found the 
box heavy. The first thing was a very neat straw 
bonnet, with a muslin band and bow : in this were 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


145 


packed two nice plain caps, to each of these was pin- 
ned a yard and a half of salmon-colored riband ; two 
nice cane-striped gowns ; a plain white-fringed shawl, 
and two of every article of necessary dress : and a 
pair of strong York-tan gloves : the clothes were 
marked at length. It is natural to suppose Fanny was 
pleased. I hope the feeling reader will not be offended 
to hear that she dried her eyes, and completely dressed 
herself in one suit. Nature had curled her hair, and 
as she looked in the glass that hung against the white 
wall, she said, “ I wish my mother could see me now !” 
and she was pleased with the idea of appearing before 
Michael and her father in her new dress. It had a 
contrary effect on Mrs. Finch, for she sighed as she 
looked at her, and said to her daughter : “ This is 

just what I was afraid of ; Fanny Kemp is too genteel 
for my service.” “ Oh, mother,” said Jemima, “ if 
she is like Mr. Kemp, she ’ll put her hand to anything, 
and look always nice, too.” “ True, child ; true,” 
said Mrs. Finch. 

Joseph Kemp, when he returned from the field with 
his son, and saw Fanny in her new dress, took her 
aside, and said, “Help thee, child; what dost thee 
dress thyself out for ? dost thee think thee ’rt come 
here to sit with thy hands before thee 1” “ Dear ! no, 

father ! but Mrs. Walker gave me these things.” 
“ Well, child ; you do n’t look like a servant ; I sup- 
pose madam meant it for Sunday. Why, you look 
as genteel as Miss Jemima.” The poor girl liked the 
rebuke (I am sorry to say) ; and her appearance had 
really one good effect : every servant in the house 
looked on Mr. Kemp’s sister as a superior being ; and 
13 


146 


THE HISTORY OF 


Michael himself had a brother’s weakness, when he 
watched the light, animated motions of his darling 
F anny. 

The day wore away, and the morrow came ; and 
Joseph Kemp left his children with a sigh and a tear ; 
commending them to Madam Finch, and, above all, in 
the silence of his own heart, to God. Fanny entered 
on her new business with alacrity ; and the next 
morning saw her dressed suitably for her employment, 
in her neat brown stuff, short sleeves, with a white 
cuff turned over ; with a yellow handkerchief and 
blue-checked apron : and she tripped about, marking 
the place for everything, like the little fairy, Order ; 
leaving no trace but that of improvement, wherever 
her honest, industrious hand went. Before eleven 
she was in the little parlor, courtesying, and praying 
to know “ if there was any sewing as she could do V* 
Her mistress was surprised, but she did not express 
it. She gave her a shirt to make for her son, and ob- 
served that she took it without inquiring how to make 
it or fit it ; and she said to Jemima, “ My mind is 
easy ; that girl is as clever as her brother.” Jemi- 
ma was pleased. She had taken a strange liking to 
Fanny. 

We must now leave the Valley Farm, and follow 
Moss and Jem Brown to the Brow and the rectory. 
We will pass the journey, as we have travelled it so 
frequently, and inform the reader that at ten o’clock 
the day after, Jem scampered down to his uncle’s, who 
greeted him with honest heart, and eyes tearful and 
joyful. “ But I have a letter for the Reverend,” said 
he, “ and I must run with it.” 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


147 


He went to the rectory ; and after Mr. Lascelles 
had read the letter, he laid it on his library table, and 
rising from his chair, said, “ I suppose you know the 
contents of this letter ?” “ No, sir.” “ Pray what do 
you intend to do with yourself ?” The boy blushed ; 
said, “ he did not know ; he thought he could get 
work.” “ I should think you had better hire yourself 
where you will be an accountable being, for I do not 
think you are born to live free.” Jem blushed still 
more deeply, and cast his eyes on the ground. “ Young 
man, I would gladly serve you, but your residence in 
that gipsy-camp is very much against you. I could 
not recommend you to a friend. I should be sorry 
your life was made unhappy in my house particu- 
larly; and your story is so well known here, that I 
much fear you would be looked down upon by my 
servants.” 

The fidgety uneasiness of Jem, the twisting of his 
stick in the side of his shoe round and round, the 
deepening crimson of his cheek, and his glance, di- 
rected to a winding path which led through the shrub- 
bery to the road out of the village, spoke eloquently 
to the mind of Mr. Lascelles, though Jem was silent ; 
and the form these varied actions and emotions took 
with him was, “ No ; I ’d be off directly.” 

Mr. L. meant to prove him, and he asked him this 
question : “ Tell me sincerely, young man, are you 
sorry for your sin, or for its consequences ?” “ Sir ?” 

said Jem, for he did not rightly understand him. “ I 
say, are you sorry for sin ?” “ I think I am, sir.” 

Here I wish the reader to observe, that Jem was 
never a premeditated liar : the boy was not a coward 


148 


THE HISTORY OF 


when he had time for reflection ; but, to shun a pres- 
ent evil, to get out of any difficulty, to cover any fault, 
either of himself or of another, a lie was his short cut, 
and he always took it. Yet, after all, Jem was not a 
hypocrite, and the penetrating mind of Mr. Lascelles 
anticipated good from this careful reply. 

Reader, beware of prevarication : take the road to 
truth wherever it leads thee. If thou hast a Bible, 
search the will of God concerning liars. Take warn- 
ing from a friend, and remember that no liar can have 
peace in his own bosom ; it injures the character, con- 
fuses the mind, multiplies every difficulty, leads to 
mistrust and disgrace, drives the spirit of truth far 
from us, and the end is fearful. Read Revelation, 
chapter twenty-first. 

Mr. Lascelles rang his bell : Robinson, his personal 
servant, appeared. “ This is Westrip’s nephew ; do 
you know of any situation where he could be safe 
and happy ?” “ The gardener, sir, wants a helper, 

in the greenhouse.” “ Well, but about boarding and 
lodging ? I rather wish to put this young man out of 
danger.” “ He could board with his uncle, sir, I dare 
say.” “ But his uncle has very little influence over 
him, I ’m afraid.” Jem bit his lip, and began to fidget 
his stick again. “ Do you think, young man, if I 
engage you at fourteen shillings a-week, and so board 
yourself at your uncle’s, you could steadily keep to 
your work?” Jem’s temper was almost too high to 
make any promise, and he twice thought to himself, 
“ I ’d rather keep sheep on Salisbury Plain but just 
then Robinson, looking piteously at his master, said, 
“ Sir, he puts me so much in mind of my poor boy ; 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


149 


you remember him, sir ?” — “ Yes, indeed, very well .” 

— “ Come, my lad, do you be steady ; and if master 
is so kind as to take you, you sha’n’t want a friend 
below stairs.” 

Jem, the natural texture of whose mind was to catch 
at every advantage, and to anticipate promotion from 
the slightest hints, underwent a c mplete revolution 
of feeling, and the place now appeared very desirable. 
He looked up, thanked Mr. Lascelles, thanked Robin- 
son, made two steps toward the door, and considered 
everything settled. The master and the man smiled 
on each other, and the affair was concluded. 

It was a rapid journey back to old Westrip’s. “ Un- 
cle, I am hired to live at the rectory.” — “ God be 
praised !” said the old man. “ Do you know that that 
servant of Mr. Lascelles has taken a great fancy to 
me, and said something to me about being his son ?” 

— “ Lawk, sirs ! why, he is rich,” said the old man. 
“ Why, Jem, this is promotion.” 

Moss’s benevolent heart rejoiced in Jem’s safety ; 
he thought no boy could be otherwise than safe under 
such a protector : and when, on Wednesday evenings, 
he attended Mr. Lascelles’s prayers, and saw Jem 
regularly come in with the servants, he thought, 
“ This looks well ; the boy is in the way.” He was 
in the way. His reverend master said little to him : 
he saw he was one of the world’s spirited children ; 
one who, as William said, had no harm in him : who 
would do no one an ill turn, but to whom the ways 
of religion were ways of dulness, and all her paths 
heavy. Mr. Lascelles had therefore treated his dis- 
eased mind with wise consideration. He talked a little 
13 * 


150 


THE HISTORY OF 


to him on the subject of prayer : he did not press the 
Scriptures upon him ; but as he was walking in his gar- 
den or conservatory, he would make observations on the 
variety and beauty of plants, and just glance slightly on 
the wisdom of Him who made them. He was an acute 
botanist, and completely understood plants and their 
uses ; the herbal train were his familiar acquaintance ; 
a small part of his knowledge would have raised the 
fame of a good wife in any part of the kingdom. He saw 
that James had nothing contemplative in his nature, and 
to be busy was the leading feature ; and it struck him 
that fully to employ him was the way to keep him from 
mischief. One morning, as he was walking in the gar- 
den, and Jem stood piping pinks, the gardener beside 
him, he said, “ I ampreparing a set of lectures for my 
Sunday-school : you, Alex, have a family ; perhaps 
you will oblige me so far as to look out a few texts, 
which you think most likely to attract the notice of 
children. Perhaps you would help me, James ?” 

James thought himself highly honored, and replied, 
with readiness, that he certainly would ; and the next 
morning brought the following : Genesis xxxvii. 3 ; 
1 Samuel, iii. 10 ; Psalms iv. 8, xx. 7, xxiii. 4 ; 
Matthew ii. 16, xvii. 2, xviii. 28, xxvi. 12, 13 ; Luke 
xxiii. 42 ; Acts v. 3, 4 ; Rev. i. 18. 

Mr. Lascelles was extremely pleased. His parish 
was large, and visiting the sick was always near his 
heart, and he often observed to Mrs. Lascelles, that 
he thought he should like to have a curate who would 
help him : “ Yet, after all, there are ways, and I must 
devise them, of communicating knowledge, and of 
reaching the sick, through the medium of nurses and 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


151 


friends and as Mr. Lascelles’s fortune was ample, 
his plans were proportionally liberal : he had four 
nurses whom he kept in constant pay, and who were 
instructed by his cook in making broth, gruel, &c., 
&c. ; and Mrs. Lascelles never failed to give them 
such books as were useful to read to the sick : they 
were chiefly written by Mr. Lascelles ; they were 
short, pointed, and continually referred to the Scrip- 
tures ; his great aim was, to make the people search, 
comprehend, and study, that sacred book. Jem’s 
readiness in looking out the texts had suggested a 
new thought to him : he determined to employ a few 
of the young men of the village in going to read to 
the men who were sick ; and in order to make the 
visit pleasant to them, they were empowered to see 
what temporal necessity might be relieved. He never 
gave them money, lest it should prove a snare ; but if 
there was a blanket wanting, or linen of any kind, a 
ticket for the shop which he had established on a be- 
nevolent plan, to make the money of the poor go far- 
ther, was granted them in aid of the wants of those 
they visited. After Jem had resided some months 
with Mr. Lascelles, he had, by his activity, good hu- 
mor, and ability, greatly won upon his esteem, and he 
ventured to ask him if he would oblige him so far as 
to go and read to old Beal once a-week. Jem would 
never have chosen this office, but he could not refuse 
his master, and Mr. L. had wisely chosen this old 
man ; not that James might do him good, but that he 
might be useful to James. He was the husband of a 
wife who tenderly loved him : they had no child sur- 
viving. They had wept and smiled together through 


152 


THE HISTORY OF 


many a wintry day, and worked through many a sultry 
harvest ; and it is hardly to be told whether the joys 
or the sorrows they had shared had the more endeared 
them to each other. Cleanliness and care had pre- 
served every early comfort, and never had Margaret 
Beal suffered her good man to know a want which her 
care could supply, or to suffer a privation which her 
love could bestow. They were both attractive in per- 
son : faded, it is true ; but health, and cleanliness, and 
active out-door employment, had preserved the bloom : 
though they were withered and wrinkled, there was 
the streak of health remaining in its wonted seat, and 
the eyes had not lost their fire, and the temper had 
not been soured by discord, and every wrinkle had 
been traced by smiles ; or those which sorrow had 
left, had so much the cast of resignation, that they 
rather dignified than disfigured them. To this worthy 
couple our animated, but heretofore slippery James 
bent his way. He stooped, as he swung-to the gate 
of their little garden, to gather a clove-pink and a bit 
of thyme. “ I never liked sick-rooms ; they are a 
kind of unwholesome places : beside, they are awful, 
like ; they seem to me the first steps to the church- 
yard.” 

This was Jem’s natural character ; but his heart 
had been attacked, and he could not now utter these 
light speeches with the ease he once did. Ere he 
got to the end of the garden-path, he said, “ God for- 
give me ! I am a wicked, hard-hearted boy.” Mar- 
garet met him : “ Well, James Brown, I am glad to 
see you. Ah ! I knew your mother, my dear ; and 
your poor grandmother too. We were at school to- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


153 


gether : she was bigger than I, to be sure. I believe 
she looked at my first hemming, and the first stocking 
I knit. Ay, she did many a row of them.” “ How 
is your husband, Mrs. Beal ?” “ He suffers a deal of 

pains, my dear ; but I think he is better since he had 
the couch from Mr. Lascelles : what a good man that 
is, James ! he thinks of us all.” When James was 
shown into the pretty little room where John Beal 
lay, he looked at his clove-pink, and this thought pass- 
ed his mind, “ I have no need of ye here.” 

The patient sufferer extended a thin hand : “ If ye 
be come of your own will, James Brown, it does my 
heart good to see your father’s son.” 

James was sincere ; he would not deceive ; but he 
was not humble, and would not willingly expose him- 
self. He only replied with a smile, “ You remember 
my father ; it ’s more than I do. I came to read to 
you ; you have books, I dare say. What would you 
like ?” “We have but one book that we ever read ; 
that is the Bible. Choose where you will.” “ Sup- 
pose we read Joseph and his brethren, or David and 
Goliath ?” The old woman was going to propose 
some of the Epistles ; but John Beal said, “ No, Mar- 
garet ; he cannot read better. I should like him to 
read David and Goliath.” 

James sat down to read the story. When they 
came to read that part where Saul armed David with 
his armor, “ Now, my good boy,” said he, “ observe : 
David could not use the armor of Saul ; he had not 
proved it. I hope, James, you will never use any de- 
fence against worldly enemies, and the enemies of 
God’s cause, in which you cannot feel confidence. I 


154 


THE HISTORY OF 


think you will not, James : I think you are an honest 
lad. You see now, James, how the Philistine cursed, 
and how he despised David for his youth, and for the 
simple weapons he was about to use. Now, my dear, 
if ever you have any enemies, who, like Goliath, seem 
strong and powerful, think of the replies of David to 
the Philistine : ‘ Thou comest to me with a sword and 
with a spear, but I come to thee in the Name of the 
Lord.’ Think of this good boy, my dear ; the young- 
est of his father’s family. Think how he spent his 
time ; in keeping the sheep : and do look at that 23d 
Psalm, and when you come again tell me how you 
like it.” 

Jem bade them good evening ; and as he walked 
home, he felt a pleasant lightness of mind, very far 
removed from his usual gayety, yet much nearer allied 
to happiness. He felt that he had been doing right ; 
and he really had enjoyed the visit. Margaret Beal 
and her husband seemed to like him. James had, as 
yet, felt uneasy in the society of good people. Michael 
had always been very kind to him, but there was a 
pride about Jem’s heart. Michael was but little older 
than himself ; and though he had never taken upon 
him any undue authority, yet the serious light in 
which he viewed Jem’s faults, which the latter always 
thought harmless, had won away the edge of affection 
on Jem’s part ; and the society which awes us, and 
makes us internally uneasy, is never our voluntary 
choice. In sorrow he was sure of a friend, and he 
always went to Michael ; but if he wished for amuse- 
ment, or to enjoy himself, as he called it, never did he 
seek it in Michael’s society. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


155 


Not to weary the reader with a long description of 
the state of Jem’s mind, it is sufficient to say — the 
visits to Beal’s cottage were frequent and voluntary : 
and the Bible opened upon him in a new light ; he was 
not only profited, but delighted ; and the activity of 
his mind once turned into this channel, instead of his 
loitering with his back against a wall, to see younger 
boys play — instead of being the companion of idle 
maid-servants and giddy-brained boys like himself — 
he was writing down texts and comparing them, and 
finding sermons on Sunday, and evening prayer, not 
only instructive, but really a pleasure to him. We 
must leave him a while, and visit Farmer Moss at the 
Brow. 

This good man, whose softened heart and affections 
shone through his conduct, and were evident to every 
beholder, was not in health. There was a lassitude, 
a weariness of limb, when he walked ; relaxation of 
body, without any visible cause : and as Mr. L. ad- 
dressed him one day, and seemed to think he looked 
poorly, he replied, “ I am poorly, sir : I have very lit- 
tle appetite ; I get up unwillingly;” and, with a smile, 
“ I can’t help thinking I am going home, sir.” Mr. 
Lascelles looked and felt grieved, and yet he was 
pleased to mark the composure with which he said 
this ; and he asked him if he would not like to see 
his sister. “ Why, sir, I have very little to say to her 
as respects herself : she is going on very prosperous- 
ly ; that Valley Farm is in good order. She has got 
a Joseph there, as I may say ; and the Lord blesses 
everything he puts his hand to. And then, dear sir, 
he ’s so little for himself, that when I spoke to him 


156 


THE HISTORY OF 


about having his wages doubled, as they ought to be, 
for the next year, he begged I would not say a word ; 
that he was quite contented that he was able to send 
his father ten pounds a year. This may content him, 
sir, but it don’t content me. My sister has got a 
plenty, but I sha’ n’t forget her : I shall leave her five 
hundred pounds, I shall leave Jemima five hundred, 
and I shall leave the boy five hundred ; but I mean to 
leave Michael the lease of my farm, the stock, and 
the rest and residue of my estate, which will make 
him easy : and I shall desire him to allow a poor 
drunken cousin of mine two shillings a day, and to 
give liim clothes twice in the year. I could not think 
of the poor creature wanting ; but I am sure, if I was 
to leave him all I had, it^would only kill him the 
sooner : and by fastening him on Michael, and by this 
daily allowance, I think I give the poor soul a chance.” 
Mr. Lascelles entirely approved of the farmer’s ar- 
rangement of his affairs ; and, smiling benevolently, 
said, “ My good friend, and so you have Canaan full 
in view. Well, you shall go over dry-sliod : these 
waters shall not prevail ; when thou walkest through 
them, He will be with thee.” There was a languor 
in Moss’s smile. Mr. Lascelles gave him his arm, 
and accompanied him home : and gave orders to Rob- 
inson, before he went out, to beg Mr. Floyd would 
meet him at the Brow. He came down accordingly, 
and pronounced the disease dropsy on the chest. The 
usual remedies were tried ; but the farmer got so ill 
that it was thought advisable to send for the family 
from the Valley, and particularly to desire Michael 
might come. William went on this errand, and was 


MICHA.EL KEMP. 


157 


to remain to assist at the Valley, while Michael was 
detained at the Brow. 

The whole party arrived. It was a relief to Moss 
to see them. Though there was no apparent expect- 
ation of a near departure, yet some one at hand to 
whom he was dear, gave a transient brilliance to his 
eye, and an air of cheerfulness to his manner. It was 
the doctor’s opinion he might linger many months ; 
but his universal debility made him fear for the event. 
Mr. Lascelles thought it right that some one should 
remain ; and at length Mrs. Finch was prevailed on 
to leave Jemima. Mr. Lascelles daily visited the far- 
mer, and told his excellent lady that he really went 
to learn, and was never disappointed. One morning 
during Mrs. Finch’s stay, when Mr. Lascelles was 
sitting by his bedside, he thus addressed him : “ I 
have been telling my sister if she had two boys, I 
should have thought it my duty to have left the lease 
of my farm and the stock to one of them ; but as it is, 
we are both agreed, sir, that that good lad deserves 
what I have done for him.” — “ Indeed we are,” said 
Mrs. Finch, with a glow of satisfaction on her benev- 
olent countenance. 

Michael returned with Mrs. Finch, and found all 
well. James Finch had behaved very steadily, and 
Fanny was delighted to look again on her dear broth- 
er. Affairs went on in the same train. The spring ad- 
vanced : they received weekly accounts from the 
Brow, which Mr. Lascelles was so good as to write ; 
and he was extremely pleased with the conduct of 
Jemima, of whom he spoke in the highest terms. 
14 


158 


THE HISTORY OF 


Sometimes there was a flattering hope that the farmer 
might recover ; then, again, he sunk, and hope fled. 

While matters were in this fluctuating state, as 
Michael was one morning standing in the porch, Fan- 
ny passed him ; and he looked up, after buttoning the 
last button of his gaiter : . “ My dear Fan, have you 
been crying ?” — “ No, brother, I am not crying ; but 
I cannot keep the water out of my eyes.” — “ Why, 
you must have a very bad cold, my dear.” — “ It is 
not like a cold, neither. I am so heavy all over ; and 
I am very hot. Do feel me.” — “ Indeed you are, 
my love.” She turned to her brother : “ Oh ! I wish 
I was with my mother.” — “ My dear Fanny, make 
yourself easy ; if this is anything more than a cold, 
your mother shall be with you.” He called for Ste- 
phen ; he was not in the way. He had the presence 
of mind to desire Fanny to go and sit down quietly 
in his bedroom ; found his mistress, and said, “ I am 
sorry, madam, to alarm you, but I greatly fear Fanny 
has the measles ; has your son had this disorder ?” 
Mrs. Finch’s countenance instantly betrayed her state 
of mind : she sunk, and seemed to anticipate evil. 
“ I have sent for Stephen from the field ; I have one 
question to put to him, and then I think I can quietly 
arrange the whole.” Mrs. Finch was very amiable ; 
but in anything which concerned her children, her 
want of confidence in God was most evident : she 
said, James had never had the measles ; but she 
should be very sorry, it would go to her heart, to put 
Fanny out. Michael looked very decided, thanked 
her for her kindness, but he said he should remove 
Fanny within an hour, he hoped. Mrs. Finch was 


MICHAEL HEMP. 


159 


going to say more, but Michael, with a respectful, 
firm, and penetrating look, which seemed to say, don’t 
let us talk nonsense, said, “ Fanny must be removed, 
madam.” 

Mrs. F. And who is to attend her ? 

Michael. I will let you know as soon as I have 
spoken to Stephen. 

Mrs. Finch left Michael, and was in that awkward 
state of mind which most people have felt, at some 
period in their lives, when they press a thing outward- 
ly, while they secretly determine it shall not take 
place. 

Michael was the last young man to favor deceit : 
he wished his mistress to suffer, because she was 
practising that which was incompatible with true piety. 

By this time Stephen arrived.- When he heard 
what Michael had to say, he replied, “ Fanny must 
not be moved.” — “ Fanny must be moved.” — “ She 
shall not be moved,” said Stephen. Michael looked 
at him : “ Who is to prevent it ?” — “ I, sir ; I say, it 
would endanger her life” (blushing deep as scarlet). 
“ Nonsense, boy ! do you step directly for Mr. Pow- 
ell.” He did not need bidding twice ; and while he 
was gone, Michael busied himself in doing kind offices 
for Fanny ; but his mind was full of Stephen’s bold- 
ness, and it gave him no small uneasiness when he 
thought on Fanny’s youth, and his responsibility for 
her happiness. He felt Stephen’s words opened 
upon him a new scene of care ; and though he loved 
Stephen more than any young man upon earth, he was 
not glad of the discovery. As soon as the doctor 
came, Stephen was at Michael’s bedroom-door : " Sir; 


160 


THE HISTORY OF 


Mr. Powell is come ;” and following Michael down 
stairs — “ It ’s just as I thought, sir !” — “ As you 
thought ? what ?” — “ It will be a very dangerous 
thing, sir, moving Fanny ; I can’t bring my mind 
to ’t.” Michael made a full stop upon the stairs : 
“ I wish to hear no more of your mind, Stephen.” 
This thought crossed his mind : what a powerful prin- 
ciple is this, which can give a modest Christian lad 
courage decidedly to oppose, who otherwise has never 
betrayed a will of his own ! 

The doctor confirmed their fears : it was the measles ; 
slie might be removed, if she were removed instantly. 
Stephen lingered to hear what the doctor said, and he 
thought the next best thing to having her under his 
own eye was to get her to his father’s ; and as soon 
as the doctor was gone, he came forward with this pro- 
posal : “ All my brothers and sisters, sir, have had the 
measles, down to the baby : we have a very tight up- 
per room ; and my mother is a very clean woman, 
and she will be proud to attend your sister, sir, as if 
she were her own child.” “ I believe, Stephen, I must 
accept your offer ; but I shall go to your mother first.” 

Accordingly Michael went to the Level-bit, a place 
he had never visited before, for reasons known only 
to himself. Mrs. Meredith thought he was proud, 
when in fact he was only prudent. When the mother 
saw him, she instinctively stroked down her apron, as 
though she wished to appear to the best advantage : 
there was no need of this, for the habitual cleanliness 
of that family, the out-door and in-door neatness, made 
themselves, and all belonging to them, objects of ad- 
miration. “ Will you please to be seated, sir?” Mi- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


161 


chael excused himself, saying, he was in great haste. 
He first asked her if all the children had had the mea- 
sles. She was surprised by the question ; but replied, 
u Yes, sir : down to the babe on my knee.” He then 
told her his present distress, and she was ready to fol- 
low up all Stephen’s invitation. Before Michael quit- 
ted the Level-bit he stepped back and said, “ Mrs. 
Meredith, your son has greatly surprised me this morn- 
ing, and indeed he has made me rather uneasy.” El- 
len, who received every secret of Stephen’s heart, 
looked conscious, and said, “ Well, sir, to be sure, my 
Stephen is but a working lad ; and, no doubt, you 
look higher for your sister ; but though he is my boy, 
he is a good boy, and a good-looking boy, and I hope 
he may do in the world.” Michael said, “ Do n’t mis- 
take me, Mrs. Meredith ; but before I tell you my sen- 
timents, let me know if I may rely on what I say 
resting between you and your husband ?” Ellen 
Meredith promised that she would do exactly as Mi- 
chael desired. “ Then,” said Michael, “ rest assured, 
there is not a lad upon this earth I should so soon 
wish for a brother as Stephen ; industrious, sweet- 
tempered, cleanly, devout, a sincere worshipper of 
God in spirit and in truth. But, Mrs. Meredith, if my 
Fanny does not already know of this preference, I 
beg she may not know it for at least a year to come. 
If her life is spared,” and the tear came into Michael’s 
eye, “ most willingly should I give her to my beloved 
Stephen ; but she is very ill, Mrs. Meredith, and God 
only knows !” 

Ellen, who had nursed all her babes with great suc- 
cess, was not at all alarmed ; she knew what was good, 
14 * 


162 


THE HISTORY OF 


and she would take care, and she did not all doubt. 
“ Under the blessing of a kind Providence, no more 
do I, Mrs. Meredith ; but in present circumstances, 
you will see the prudence of silence.” Could the 
reader have seen Ellen Meredith during Michael’s 
speech, he would have marked how the mother’s heart 
drank in the praises of her son Stephen. She prom- 
ised everything that Michael desired, assured him 
that Stephen had never informed Fanny of his prefer- 
ence, and they parted mutually pleased with each 
other. 

Michael stepped to the only inn in the village, 
hired the only post-chaise, and in one hour removed 
his beloved Fanny from bis own bedroom to the clean 
quiet Level-bit : and, to ease Fanny’s beating heart, 
he assured her that as soon as their mother could be 
fetched, she should be with her. 

Young Ellen Meredith went to the Valley, to take 

Fanny’s place ; and Stephen was despatched to P , 

to fetch Mrs. Kemp. This patient Christian heard 
Stephen’s tidings with so much resignation, that Ste- 
phen thought her hard-hearted : he could not conceive 
how any mother could hear of such a girl as Fanny 
being so ill, and say only, “ It is the Lord ; let him 
do what seemeth him good.” Mrs. Meredith received 
the excellent mother with the greatest attention, and 
Michael took care that nothing should be wanting at 
the Level-bit. 

As the shades of evening drew on, Elizabeth Kemp 
knelt by the side of her dear child ; prayed fervently 
for a blessing on the means used for her recovery ; 
and, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, closed 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


163 


every petition with, “ Nevertheless, not as I will, but 
as Thou wilt.” Ellen had frequently been spoken to 
on religious subjects by her. son Stephen : he had al- 
ways spoken with respect. But the subject was un- 
pleasant to her ; it had only been tolerated because 
her Stephen said it. She felt that she was an excel- 
lent mother, and was ready to say — what would they 
have more ? She did not remember that the first thing 
in religion was to love God : indeed, Ellen Meredith 
was like many other excellent wives and mothers, apt 
to idolize her husband and her children. Ellen re- 
joiced when any one said, “ What a nice family those 
Merediths are !” but she was a stranger to the joy 
which David felt when he said, “ I was glad when 
they said unto me, Let us go into the house of the 
Lord.” The whole of Sunday morning was taken up 
in dressing her family, and getting the dinner ; the 
greater part of the time they were at church in the 
afternoon was spent in dressing herself, and in clear- 
ing away the dinner. Thus sabbath after sabbath was 
passed, as though she had no soul. But now she saw 
a mother using every means for the recovery of her 
child, begging a blessing on every medicine, and 
practising at the bedside of a very lovely daughter the 
last earthly virtue, resignation ; and resignation, too, 
to the loss of so sweet a creature ! She was of Ste- 
phen’s mind ; and the virtue she could not practise, 
she censured. 

The very evening of Stephen’s return from P , 

Michael took him up and down the gravel walk of 
their neat garden, and said, “ I am very much obliged 
to you, Stephen, for the kind interest you take in my 


164 


THE HISTORY OF 


sister, and for the active attention you diave paid to 
my mother.” — “You are not at all obliged to me for 
that, sir : I could not help it ; Fanny’s as much to 
me as to you , and more.” — “I would just mention one 
thing to you, Stephen. I am grieved to tell you an 
important truth : I have no reason to think Fanny a 
religious character. She has good habits, honest 
principles, and a sweet disposition ; but I do not think 
the pride of her heart has been brought low. You 
can best tell how far such an objection weighs with 
you, but I know how it ought : we are commanded to 
pluck out right eyes, if they interfere with our eternal 
peace.” — “ But, sir, I am sure Fanny is always very 
attentive to everything serious.” — “ She is, Stephen; 
and I hope this sickness may be very useful to her. 
I assure you it would be very grateful to my heart to 
confide her to one whom I love as a brother ; but I 
have seen unequal unions produce great discord, and 
divide families. I charge you, Stephen, to have clear 
proof that Fanny is in earnest before you say one 
word on the subject : and even should this sickness 
be of use to Fanny, which I trust it may, give me 
your promise to wait one year. Fanny is only eigh- 
teen ; you are one-and-twenty : you have plenty of 
time before you, if a gracious Providence sees fit to 
continue your existence.” 

The kindness of Michael’s declaration restored 
Stephen to a more quiet, rational state of mind, than 
he had been in for some time past. They were turn- 
ing toward the house, when Michael laid his hand on 
Stephen’s shoulder, and said, “ Mind, Stephen, while 
Fanny continues at the Level-bit, I forbid your going 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


165 


there, unless any part of your family should immedi- 
ately require your attention.” Stephen promised, not 
very willingly, it is true ; but he did promise. 

Mrs. Finch was all kindness now her heart was at 
rest about James. Fanny wanted nothing ; Mrs. 
Kemp wanted nothing : and this good woman had but 
one concern during her stay at the Level-bit ; and 
this was, how she might improve the religious princi- 
ples of Meredith and his wife, and lead Fanny to 
profit by her illness. Often would she say to her 
host, as she walked about their nice garden, “ What 
are these things, William Meredith, if they lead us 
not to Him who made them ? The pollution of the 
first paradise was caused by disobedience to God’s 
command, and a desire to live independent of him : 
hiding from his presence followed ; but let us be 
thankful we are brought nigh.” All this was an un- 
known tongue to Meredith and his wife ; and when 
they were alone, they could only say to one another 
that ’t was a fine thing to have learning, and that Mr. 
Kemp’s mother was a very sensible person. 

Fanny’s disorder had been of the mildest kind ; she 
was soon well, soon gay, and too gay, her mother 
thought : often had she occasion to remind her, how 
the goodness of God had raised her to life and health ; 
and though it became her to enjoy this blessing, she 
wished to see her more quiet and composed. But 
Ellen Meredith, with her husband and family, thought 
Fanny the sweetest creature. Rose Meredith would 
creep in to dress her, the lovely pet-boy would come 
in to kiss her, William had always a flower for her ; 
and all this attention so delighted Fanny, that her 


166 


THE HISTORY OF 


mother said, with a smile and a sigh, “ I hope, child, 
thee ’It not forget thyself.” 

As Fanny was quite recovered, each one returned 

to his post. Elizabeth Kemp returned to P , 

where she was gladly received by her anxious family. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


167 


CHAPTER VI. 

For about a month things went on in their usual 
train, when a letter from Jemima again summoned her 
mother to the bedside of Farmer Moss. There was 
a postscript, that her uncle would not wish to distress 
his sister, but if Mr. Kemp could come with her, he 
should be very glad to see him : and as Stephen and 
Williamson were so well-principled, there was no 
hesitation. The travellers set off immediately : they 
reached the Brow. William had come to meet them 
a mile from the place, to inform them his master was 
rather better that day, and was expecting them with 
great satisfaction : that Miss Jemima thought it better 
to send, that they might come in cheerful. This was 
indeed considerate, for Mrs. Finch was spiritless, and 
weary with her journey ; looking on every object 
through her own gloomy feelings, weeping and drying 
away the tear, and putting a sad constraint on her 
aching heart. This little good news had the happiest 
effect, and ere they got to the farm the traces of sor- 
row had disappeared. Jemima met them at the door, 
and “ Dear mother !” and “ My own good maid !” was 
all they could say. “ Your uncle is better, my love ?” 
— “A little better, my dear mother ; yet he is very ill : 
but it is a pleasure to be with him ; I would not but 
have been with him !” Mrs Finch could not compre- 


168 


THE HISTORY OF 


hend it. They soon went to the chamber of the sick 
man. 

Moss received his sister with great pleasure ; and 
the color that lit up his pale face deceived her at her 
first entrance : she thought him better ; and she turned 
to Jemima, “ My dear, your uncie does not always lie 
in bed, I hope ?” Moss, smLing, said, “ No, my dear, 
they let the old man do pretty much as he likes : 1 
get up when I can’t lie, and I lie when I can’t sit up ; 
so I sometimes turn night into day, and day into night. 
But all times are pleasant to me, my dear Jane ; for 1 
have the best company, and we are all agreed. And 
my dear Jemima, she hasn’t come here for nothing, 
sister : she has got a rich inheritance.” Mrs. Finch 
could not understand it ; she concluded her brother 
had altered his will. The tear came into Jemima’s 
eye, and she hid her face in her handkerchief. Mrs. 
Finch whispered her, “Ah! my child, that’s just 
like me, thee ’dst rather keep thy uncle, than gain all 
the inheritances.” Jemima would have suffered her 
mother’s error to pass ; but Moss called out, “ No, no, 
sister ; she ’s sitting at the feet of her Master ; she 
has chosen that good part which shall not be taken 
away from her : she is clothed, and in her right mind.” 
Mrs. Finch thought, “ It ’s more than my poor brother 
is.” 

The day passed, and Michael had spent an hour 
with his master’s hand in his, and the good creature 
bolstered up in his bed : “ No night there, Michael ; 
for the Lamb is the light thereof. No night here, 
Michael,” said he, pointing to his bosom ; “ for the 
Lord is my light, and is become my salvation. What 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


169 


could all the world do for me now ? I have tried 
it, I have thought of it ; broken cisterns, Michael. 
There ’s my pretty Jemima, she that holds my head 
when I cough ; she that weeps when I suffer. What 
can she do for me ? She can only go to the river’s 
brink with me. No, no ; I must have a stronger arm ; 
and I have it, Michael ; there ’s the joy ; I have it. 
Oh! what can make a death-bed easy? None but 
Jesus, none but Jesus ! I should not like to come 
back, Michael. I ’ve had some pretty prospects as I 
lay here.” 

Mrs. Finch was gliding into the room at this mo- 
ment, and Mr. Lascelles was behind her. She turned 
back to him, and closed the door again. 

Mrs. Finch. There, sir, it ’s just as I told you ; he 
is light-headed again. 

Mr. L. O, madam, I ’ve seen nothing of that sort. 
He is light-hearted, but I think his head as clear as 
yours and mine. 

Mr. Lascelles now entered. “ Well, sir,” said the 
poor sufferer, “ this is a pleasant meeting of us here 
all together.” 

Michael rose ; and Mr. Lascelles, bowing from his 
height, with a look of penetrating benevolence, said, 
“ Young man, I am rejoiced to see you and, with 
that quiet grace with which he did everything, drew 
his chair to the bedside, and bent his looks toward 
the sick man. Jemima and her mother stood by the 
window, and Michael at the bottom of the bed, with 
that settled, humble, affectionate composure which so 
remarkably distinguished him. 

Mr. Lascelles began: “‘In my Father’s house 
15 


170 


THE HISTORY OF 


are many mansions;’” — the farmer went on, with 
his eyes sparkling : “ ‘ If it were not so, I would 
have told you.’ Y es, sir : he is gone to prepare a 
place for me. Sometimes, sir, I have had a fear 
whether he was gone to prepare a place for me ; but 
then, when I read that ‘ not only for them, but for all 

that believe on him through their word’ Well, 

sir, I wo n’t talk of doubts and fears ; there ’s no use 
in ’t. The good shepherd is with me ; and you, my 
earthly shepherd, don’t forget me. You’ve been a 
blessing to me, Mr. Lascelles ; and that boy has been 
a blessing to me ; and there ’s my pretty Jemima.” 
Jemima thought he called her ; she was at the bedside 
in a moment: “ JNo, my good maid; I didn’t want 
you. We are looking to the hills, Jemima ; the ever- 
lasting hills, seeing goodly sights, my love.” — “ Those 
are fine lines of Watts’s,” said Mr. Lascelles : — 

“ { But now the everlasting hills 
Through every chink appear ; 

And something of the joy she feels. 

While she ’s a prisoner here. 5 ” 

“ That ’s very true, sir ; that ’s very true ; I can 
feel it.” “ I think you will be glad to hear,” said Mr. 
Lascelles, looking at Michael, “ that James Brown is 
under deep concern about his soul. He came into 
my study last night precisely in the same state as the 
jailer — * What must I do to be saved ?’ The reply 
was brief ; you know it, Michael.” — « Ah i” said 
Moss, “ ‘ believe on the Lord Jesus Christ’ ” (length- 
ening out the words as he spoke). “ But James 
Brown is ^ character,” said Mr. Lascelles, “ I have 


MICHASL KEMP. 


171 


rarely met with. There is lightness, and yet truth 
and steadiness at bottom. I am careful not to mislead 
him ; for, when in any distress, he catches at air, 
and I am careful not to give him comfort too soon, 
lest he should make an unsound believer ” 

“ He is in good hands,” said Michael, respectfully : 
<£ he was too much for me, but God has put him under 
your care, sir ; and these convictions coming when he 
is in no outward trouble, give me hope that his sorrow 
for sin is genuine.” 

Mr. Lascelles. I think and hope it is. He has 
visited a very good man in this village, lately, who has 
great hopes of him. He seems to pursue his present 
course with the same spirit and activity which he 
heretofore employed upon worldly objects ; and there 
was a sincerity about him which I always liked. 

The days passed in delightful conversation, though 
the paroxysms of Moss’s disorder grew more and 
more frequent ; and one morning Jemima ran to the 
bedside of her mother — li O my dear mother ! I think 
my kind uncle is going. We have sent for the phy- 
sician, and Mr. Kemp is gone for Mr. Lascelles.” 

They were all soon assembled around the bed of 
Moss. He could not speak just then, but in the in- 
tervals of suffocation had a smile for each ; and Mr. 
Lascelles, in pursuance of his office, said : “ He is 
faithful who hath promised ; the everlasting arms are 
under your head ; and though worms destroy this body, 
yet in thy flesh thou shalt see God. This mortal 
shall put on immortality.” 

Moss’s eye was fixed on his reverend friend : Mi- 
chael held his post at the bottom of the bed ; Jemima 


172 


THE HISTORY OP 


was kneeling behind her uncle, raising him, as occa- 
sion required. Mrs. Finch was in a further part of 
the room, talking to the doctor, and Moss heard him 
say, “ Mr. L. is a good man, certainly ; but it is not 
judicious in the state your brother is.” Moss, who 
had recovered his speech, and had never lost his com- 
posure of mind, said, “ My dear sister, do come ; and 
do you, sir, come ; and let me speak to you both. 
You have thought, sister, that what I have said to you 
was very strange ; I know you have : it is strange till 
the heart is changed. Oh ! sir [looking at the doctor], 
you can do nothing for me now. You know all your 
prescriptions have failed. My disorder is too strong 
for human help. Now let me try to do you some 
good. I hear you never go to church. I have heard 
you don’t like to see Mi*. Lascelles in the bedroom 
of the sick. [Seeing the doctor color up highly, and 
about to take his leave] What, doctor ! will you leave 
a poor man whom you will most likely never see 
again ? and will you leave him in anger because he 
tells you the truth ? Give me your hand ; you are not 
young ; you must soon follow me. Oh ! think of your 
soul, dear sir, think of your soul ! Do you think, 
doctor, if I was to see a person walking in the dark, 
who did n’t know the country, d’ ye think as I wouldn’t 
be frightened to see him stepping off the Brow ? D’ ye 
think as I would n’t catch him by the arm ? Do you 
think I should mind pulling him a little roughly to 
save his life ? Now, doctor, you don’t read the Scrip- 
tures, I know : I am afraid you don’t believe them.” 

The doctor had recovered his surprise, collected 
his scattered thoughts, resumed what he thought his 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


173 


dignity, and was waiting with frigid and stoical feel- 
ing (or rather numbness) till Moss should finish ; then, 
drawing his hand from Moss’s, and adjusting his col- 
lar, said, with a forced smile, “ Really, sir, I do not 
comprehend your allusion.” “ Poor soul ! I thought 
he did not” (looking at Mr. Lascelles). 

Mr. Lascelles was silent. But again, seeing the 
doctor was about to depart, Moss said, “ Thank you, 
doctor ; thank you for all your kindness to me ; may 
God reward you seven-fold ! May what is dark be- 
come clear as day, written with a sunbeam on your 
conscience !” And then, as though there was no crea- 
ture present, and with his eyes closed, “ O Lord, have 
mercy upon his soul !” The doctor escaped, being 
glad to avoid further conversation. 

It is worthy of remark how little the constant sight 
of disease and death affects the human mind : even of 
persons conversant with such scenes it may be affirm- 
ed : “If they hear not Moses and the prophets, nei- 
ther will they be persuaded though one rose from the 
dead.” If they read not the Scriptures, if they value 
not the exhortations of the ministers of God, the most 
awful sight which humanity presents is seen to work 
no permanent change. 

Moss had several times sent for Farmer Newton : 
he had always promised to come ; and when Kemp 
had called the day before, had told him, that “ he could 
not come, it hurt him so bad.” Michael replied : “ I 
hope you will, sir. I think you will be sorry if any 
thing happens to my poor master. I think you ’ll be 
sorry if you have not seen him : you ’ve always been 
such good friends, sir !” 


15 ! 


174 


THE HISTORY OF 


Newton. Ay, so we have, indeed : we be old com- 
panions. 

This conversation had its desired effect ; and, as 
Mrs. Finch retired from showing the doctor out, she 
came on tiptoe to the bedside, saying, “ Brother, here 
is Farmer Newton ; should you like to see him V 9 
The farmer smiled, and said, “ Yes.” 

Newton came in ; and Mr. Lascelles moved from 
the bedside to make way for him. As he quitted it, 
he pressed the farmer’s hand : “ God bless you, sir.” 
The farmer only replied by pressing it. 

“You ’ve come at last,” said Moss. “ I thought I 
should never see you.” 

The tear was in Farmer Newton’s eye : “ I ’ve had 
a cold, and my wife ha’ n’t been very well ; and we ’ve 
had some dull weather lately ; and besides, it do cut 
me to the heart to see you look so bad.” 

Moss made no reply ; but, turning to Jemima, said, 
“ My dear, do you and your mother raise me up a bit 
higher. Michael, bring me the cushion of the great 
chair. There ; now I ’m easier.” 

The color which had risen to his brow gently sub- 
sided ; and, after a minute’s pause, “ Old friend ! we 
must all die. But there ’s nothing here to hurt you. 
I am going to be happier than ever I have been here. 
I ’ve been a prosperous man ; but I am getting old, I 
could not have kept it. I ’ve kind friends, but I must 
not stay with them. It ’s a great matter, old friend, to 
say, I am ready, I am willing to go. I shall have a 
new body ; and all I leave here will, I hope, follow 
me and he kept his eye fixed upon his sister. 

Farmer Newton did not want kindness of heart; 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


175 


and lie was struck with all his old friend said : but his 
heart was like dry ground ; the impression of the dews 
of heaven was soon absorbed. It was, “ Yes,” to 
everything : yes, and a tear ; and the matter was 
ended. Poor Moss saw and felt that he made no im- 
pression. Weary and exhausted, he remained silent. 

Farmer Newton was not sorry to withdraw from a 
scene in which he felt and discovered nothing but 
gloom. 

Johanna and William sat up with Moss that night, 
and about three o’clock alarmed the family. They 
were soon round him : with Jemima’s hand in one of 
the farmer’s hands, and Michael’s in the other, he 

said, “ God bless you ! the angel of his presence ” 

and he finished his sentence in heaven. 

Silently they retired. There was sorrow without 
regret : they felt that every tear they shed was self- 
ish. “ He is risen to life immortal !” said Michael, 
as he closed the door. 

Michael immediately set out for the Valley. He 
was to bring James back with him on the following 
Thursday. His journey was mournful ; but he found 
it good to meditate on this change from time to eter- 
nity. He could not help saying to himself, as he rode 
beneath the blue arch of heaven, “ He is beyond the 
reach of seasons ! ‘ He shall hunger no more, nei- 

ther thirst any more ; neither shall the sun light on 
him, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the 
midst of the throne shall feed him, and shall lead him 
unto living fountains of waters : and God shall wipe 
away all tears from his eyes.’ I have had a great 
loss ; I have lost a friend who loved me : and one 


176 


THE HISTORY OF 


with whom I could take sweet counsel” — and the 
tears chased one another down his youthful cheek. 
He was so absorbed, that he was riding through the 
turnpike-gate without remembering he had to pay ; 
and the man came up rather rudely and demanded the 
money. The interruption was good, as it enabled 
him to pursue his journey with more vigor, remem- 
bering he had many miles to go before he could reach 
home. He was obliged to rest that night, and did 
not get to the Valley till the morning. Fanny ran 
out to meet him. 

Fanny. My own Michael ! how is your master ? 

Michael. Would that we were all as well, my 
Fanny. He is in the presence of his Savior. 

Fanny. And how is my mistress, and Miss Je- 
mima ? 

Michael. ' As well as possible, considering their 
loss. 

Fanny. What will be done at the Brow ? 

Michael. I know not : for there is no one fit to take 
the lead there. Have you heard from your mother, 
Fanny, since I was away ? 

Fanny. Yes, my dear brother, I have ; and they 
are all well at home, except poor Joe : he has had 
the ear-ache sadly. And my mother says he is so 
impatient, that he almost wears her out. 

Michael. Ah ! my dear ; it ’s a sad pain ; none but 
those who have it, can tell how hard it is Jo bear. 

Every being at the Valley rejoiced to see Michael ; 
and Stephen hung at his chamber-door to ask a few 
questions concerning the death of his master. Michael 
invited him in, and related the whole ; and when he 


Michael kemp. 


177 


withdrew, he said, “ O, sir, let me die the death of 
the righteous, and let my last end be like his.” Mi- 
chael replied, “ And mine also and they parted for 
the night. 

Mourning was provided ; and the travellers de- 
parted with a heavy heart on their affecting journey. 
They did not reach the Brow till eight in the morn- 
ing of Thursday. They found Jemima and her moth- 
er in tranquil pursuit of their sorrowful duties. Seve- 
ral of the neighboring farmers were invited ; and 
among them Farmer Newton. Mr. Lascelles attended 
at the house, and everything was conducted in the 
most respectable, modest manner. A long train of 
farmers, domestics, voluntary poor, and little children, 
hand-in-hand, with chastened looks, followed the slow 
procession down the hill. The singers at church met 
the corpse with a slow dirge ; and Michael’s heart 
throbbed almost audibly, as his reverend friend pro- 
nounced, “ I am the resurrection and the life ; whoso 
believeth on me, though he were dead, yet shall he 
live.” 

To those who have never witnessed a funeral in a 
village, faint would be the idea they could form of its 
solemnity. There no indifferent eye witnesses the 
scene : every infant has a sigh and a last piteous look 
for the departed. “ Dust to dust,” and the rattling 
mould thrown in, was the signal ; and the tears gush- 
ed out amain from every eye ; and Mr. Lascelles him- 
self could scarce utter the parting blessing. He 
walked home with them to the Brow, and Michael 
had some sweet, consoling conversation with him ere 
they entered the house. After needful refreshment, 


178 


THE HISTORY OF 


Mrs. Finch requested him to read the will of the de- 
ceased. 

When they came to that part where Michael was 
particularly mentioned, the honest surprise and even 
revolting of his feelings were visible. He put his 
handkerchief to his face and went out of the room. 

As soon as Mr. Lascelles had finished the will, he 
retired. Michael had waited for him. 

Michael. I dare not, sir ; I dare not take it, it would 
be such a stain to religion. What would my mistress 
think of it ? No, indeed ! I am satisfied, sir : “ hav- 
ing food and raiment, I am therewith content. ,, 

Mr. Lascelles. For your mistress, my good young 
man, she is perfectly satisfied with her brother’s ar- 
rangement ; and it w r as settled on all hands that it was 
best you should remain ignorant of the disposition of 
your master’s property, till his will became law. 

Michael. 1 cannot tell you how I feel, sir : never 
before have such sensations had place in my mind. I 
feel now that I am open to the charge of fawning on 
my master, to gain his property ; and if I come to 
this Brow Farm, and should be suspected of any base 
conduct, — 

Mr. Lascelles. Come, come, young man ; leave 
your good name with God : while your hands are 
clean, and your heart upright before him, he will not 
suffer your enemies to prevail over you. In this par- 
ish I have some influence. Depend on me for repel- 
ling every false charge : and that, not for your sake, 
but for Him whose cause is nearer to my heart than 
anything earthly. 

He left him full of an uneasy sensation, to which 


MICHAEL KEMP. 179 

% 

he could not give a name. He was sitting in the first 
kitchen, very mournful, when Jemima came up : “ Mr. 
Kemp, we were wondering where you were ; my 
mother wants to see you.” 

Michael had never answered a call of Mrs. Finch’s 
with so much reluctance. When he went in, she 
said, “ I hope, Mr. Kemp, you may live many years 
to enjoy this house, and all things my dear brother has 
left you.” 

Michael wept, and held his handkerchief to his 
face : “ I can never forget your kindness, madam ; 
but I cannot be happy to injure you and yours.” — 
“ O, Mr. Kemp,” said Jemima, “ we knew it all ; we 
knew that your kind heart wouldn’t approve it, and 
that is the reason my mother never mentioned it to 
you.” — “Depend upon it, Mr. Kemp,” said Mrs. 
Finch, “ all my friends shall know how little you de- 
sired this property : and if my son should grow up 
such a young man as you are, so honest, so generous, 
I am sure, if he had not a shilling in the world, I 
should never be uneasy about him ; for a good name 
is better than great riches, and that I see.” 

No greedy miser ever more eagerly sought to accu- 
mulate property, than our honest Michael to clear his 
profession of religion of every stain ; and he conclu- 
ded by saying to Mrs. Finch, “ If you could spare me 
two days, madam : I could not accept the property 
till I have seen Mr. Walker ; and if you will grant 
me this favor, I will set off immediately.” 

Mrs. Finch looked at her daughter with an expres- 
sion of surprise and admiration. She said, “ Mr. 
Kemp, you are your own master ; you are in your 


/ 


180 


THE HISTORY OF 


own house ; everything here is yours : and yet you 
ask my leave.” 

Michael. Madam, I consider myself your servant. 
My time is yours. 

Mrs. Finch. You did not hear, Mr. Kemp, what 
you are to do for our poor cousin. He is to come to 
you every day for two shillings ; and you are to clothe 
him twice a year. 

Michael. Do you mean poor old Richard Moss, 
ma’am, who used to give my master so much trouble 1 

Mrs. Finch. Yes, the same. 

Michael. Well, madam, I must see Mr. Walker, if 
you please ; and if he thinks it right that I should 
come here, I will then talk with you on the subject. 

He accordingly set out, promising to be back on 
Saturday, that they might all go to the church together 
on Sunday. During the journey, Michael was plan- 
ning what he should do, in case Mr. Walker thought 
it right he should accept the property. He wished to 
send for Stephen ; for he was determined, unless he 
was there himself, not to leave Fanny under the same 
roof with him. But he was fearful Mrs. Finch would 
not be able to spare Stephen, who had become so 
trustworthy that she could confide in him entirely. 
He meant unreservedly to speak to Mr. Walker of 
everything : and thus, in ruminating, in prayer for di- 
rection, every now and then a whelming tide of feel- 
ing for his lost master (the excellent Moss) brought 
the tears to his eyes and a sigh to his bosom. He 
determined to put up at the first inn, take his quiet 
refreshment there, order his bed, go down to Mr. 


MICHA.EL KEMP. 


181 


Walker’s, converse freely with him ; but not to see 
his father and mother till all was settled. 

He arrived at the rectory : was sorry to hear Mr. 
Walker had sprained his ankle, and was confined to 
his study. The servant, who remembered Michael 
from a lad, ran gladly to inform his master who was 
come. He soon -returned, desiring he would walk in. 
There he found his excellent friend reclining on a sofa, 
looking rather pale from the confinement ; Miss So- 
phia standing by her father, and Mrs. Walker sitting 
as his nurse. Miss Sophia dropped a kind expres- 
sion, bent gently, and passed from the room. 

Mr. Walker’s hand was immediately extended : 
“ Truly glad — truly glad to see you, my good young 
man.” Mrs. Walker said, “ Pray sit down, Mr. 
Kemp.” 

Michael looked full of business. “ I have a long 
story for you, sir ; I hope I shall not be troublesome.” 
— “I hope all is well,” said Mr. Walker, looking 
with some anxiety. “ Yes, sir,” said Michael. They 
suffered him to relate everything that had passed with- 
out any interruption, excepting that now and then, 
during the relation of Moss’s illness, Mr. Walker took 
off his spectacles and wiped them, and put them on 
again. But when they came to that part where they 
heard the reason of Michael’s visit, Mrs. Walker looked 
at her husband with an eye of sparkling approbation 
that seemed to say, “ This is just what I should ex- 
pect from him.” 

“ And what do you mean to do, sir ?” said Mr. 
Walker. 

Michael. You must decide that, sir. 

16 


182 


THE HISTORY OF 


Mr. Walker. I do decide it : but, before I speak, 
what says Mr. Lascelles ? 

Michael. He says I ought to accept it. 

Mr. Walker. What says Mrs. Finch ? 

Michael. The same, sir. 

Mr. Walker. I am entirely of their opinion. What 
does your father say ? 

Michael. I have not seen my father, sir. The 
poverty of our family is well known to you, and I was 
afraid they would not be able to give right judgment ; 
so I did not choose to consult them. 

Mr. Walker. Right. 

“Pray,” said Mrs. Walker, “how is your own 
mind disposed ?” 

Michael. To say, madam, that the power of doing 
good to my family is not a pleasure to me, would be 
wrong. 

Mrs. Walker. And perhaps you would like to 
marry, Mr. Kemp? 

Michael. Not at present, madam. 

Mrs. Walker [smiling]. Perhaps you have some 
one in your eye ? 

Mr. Walker. Hush ! hush ! my dear ; we have no 
right to inquire. 

“Fare thee well!” said Mrs. Walker, rising. 
“ Michael knows I wish him happy.” 

Michael. Thank you, madam ; you have always 
been very kind to me. 

After Mrs. Walker was gone out, Michael said : 
“ Sir, I should never have taken the liberty of intru- 
ding my private feeling on your ear, but as Mrs. 
Walker has touched that point, I will just say, a very 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


183 


nice young person I have sometimes met (the sister 
of a young fellow I have had under my care for some 
years) returns often to my thoughts ; but though she is 
everything I could wish as a moral character, I have 
no reason to think her mind has as yet been humbled 
for sin, or that her virtue is more than morality would 
teach. She has been brought up in habits of the 
strictest economy and honesty. Her person is re- 
markably pleasing ; so much so, that I do not trust 
myself to speak to her or of her ; and I only do it 
now, that I may have no reserve with you, sir.” 

Mr. Walker. And your objection is only on the 
ground of want of piety ; in all other respects, she is 
the person you would choose ? 

Michael. Exactly, sir. 

Mr. Walker. And she knows nothing of it ? 

Michael,. Nothing, sir. I hardly know it myself, 
for this is the first time I ever spoke of it ; and I ’m 
very much afraid of liking her too well, and therefore 
I will say no more of her at present. — Suppose, sir, 
if I accept this farm, I was to pay Mrs. Finch a hun- 
dred a-year out of it ; I think I should be easier. I 
think I should be more like her bailiff. 

After a few minutes’ silence, his reverend friend 
said, “ Give me your arm [turning himself gently on 
the sofa, with Michael’s assistance]. To the excel- 
lent spirit that is in thee, to the guidance and the 
good-will of Him who dwelt in the bush, I leave you. 
If there is any error in your conduct on this occasion, 
it leans so to the side of virtue that I dare not combat 
it. One piece of advice I give you : keep very short 
accounts ; and send your mistress the money you in- 


184 


THE HISTORY OF 


tend to pay, quarterly. If it sliould at any time be 
inconvenient to you to continue this allowance, be 
sure to have your books regular, that you may have a 
fair debtor and creditor account to show. Another 
thing : do not immediately remove your family from 
this place, which I dare say you are disposed to do. 
Remember, it is large. Try a year at least; and 
when you do remove them, let them come to you in 
all the decency of humble life : and hold out no golden 
prospects to unsettle their minds or their principles. 
It is not every mind can stand a sudden reverse. The 
piety of your father and mother is unquestionable ; 
and as they are my children, their safe walk is 
a part of my happiness : so you see I am selfish 
after all.” 

Michael. I have done wisely, sir, I think, in one 
thing ; I never have leaned to my own understanding. 
You have been the guide of my youth. 

Mr. Walker. My good lad, Michael Kemp, this is 
a very common error. If you had had no better 
guide than George Walker, you would not have been 
so correct as you are. And oh ! [said he, joining his 
reverend hands together], may the good Spirit which 
hath begun the good work in your soul, make it per- 
fect, strengthen, stablish, settle you! You may per- 
haps think I am too particular in casting from me your 
approbation and your confidence : but ministers are 
men, and are exposed to very great temptations ; more 
especially if they are the means of doing any good in 
their parishes. They are surrounded by grateful and 
loving children, who over-rate their characters, and 
spoil what they admire. They set up a human crea- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


185 


ture like themselves, they sit in his shadow till they 
lose sight of the sun. Paul may plant, Apollos may 
water, but God only can give the increase. 

Michael rose to depart. “ Pull the bell ; Mrs. 
Walker will like to say, Good-eve ning.” 

She came at her husband’s summons : “ Well, Mr. 
Kemp, we got a peep, and it is but a peep of you. I 
could have wished,, if it were right to wish anything, 
that we had you here, instead of twenty miles distant.” 

“ Oh ! we shall go and visit him some day,” said 
Mr. Walker, looking kindly at him, “ if we live. I 
should like to see this Brow Farm, and to look at my 
old friend Lascelles, his nice wife, and his pretty 
children ; and I should like to^ drop a tear at the grave 
of poor Moss, who has journeyed so happily through 
pain and sorrow, and who is seated in the presence of 
Him who removed the sting of death. — Ah! Ed- 
mund, are you come to see your old friend, the black- 
berry-gatherer ?” 

This fine youth, with a countenace full of the kind- 
est expression, offered Michael his hand. “ How 
Master Edmund is grown, sir!” — “Yes, he has left 
me in the valley ;” and, with expressions full of be- 
nevolence and esteem from Mr. and Mrs. Walker and 
their son, he departed. 

It was late, and he would not disturb his family that 
evening. And Mrs. Potter, who knew every horse 
that came into the village, and envied every penny 
that went beside her, had fished out that Michael was 
gone to the rectory ; that he was dressed in a suit of 
superfine black cloth ; that he had on a new pair of 
gloves ; and, please ye, fine crape in his hat ; that 


186 


THE HTSTORY OF 


his old master, Moss, was dead, and had left him a 
power of money ; and that he was got so proud, he 
could not visit his poor old father and mother ; that 
he was so grand, he could not go to anybody but the 
heads of the place. ** This is gratitude : he must go 
to the Fountain, instead of the Lion. I wonder what 
the landlady of the Fountain ever gived him or his. 
This comes of his religion !” 

Mrs. Potter’s ill-nature flew. Joe brought it home 
just as they were going to bed. “ Nonsense, boy !” 
said his father. “ I wish you would not go gossiping 
with that boy at the Lion, Joe,” said his mother. Joe 
held down his conscious head, and the family went to 
repose. 

Before six next morning, Michael was at his fa- 
ther’s door. The windows were open ; Jane was 
lighting the fire, his father buttoning his gaiters, and 
Joe just opening the hatch to go to his labor at the 
nursery-man’s. He returned : “ Here is Michael, 
just as Mrs. Potter said !” — “ Just as Mrs. Potter 
said , stupid boy ! What can that woman know of our 
Michael ?” 

Kemp knew his boy too well, to suspect him for an 
instant j and poor Joe feared his father still thought 
him a foolish son. 

Michael patted his head, saying, “ Dearest boy, I 
do not wonder Mrs. Potter thought it odd ; but I shall 
give my father good reasons.” 

Elizabeth Kemp was soon down : she was not quite 
so confiding as her husband, and could not help say- 
ing, “ Michael, I am sorry thy father’s house is not 
good enough for thee.” “ Wife, wife !” said Joseph 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


187 


Kemp, in a tone which she well understood. It was 
never used but when he was displeased — seriously 
displeased. Michael could only kiss her cheek, and 
say, “ Have patience, mother ; could we breakfast 
alone this morning.” 

Elizabeth Kemp looked at him : “ Is anything the 
matter, my boy ? In deep mourning ! How is my 
Fanny?” — “Quite well, mother. If we could be 
alone — ” — “ Y es, my dear boy.” 

Jane hustled the children up stairs ; Joe took his 
bit in his pocket. “ Good-by, Michael ; I shall see 
you again at dinner.” — “ No, my dear boy, I must be 
at home to-night.” The father and mother both stared, 
but said nothing. 

Once alone, Michael began : stated all the reader 
has been made acquainted with, only concealing Mr. 
Walker’s advice as respected themselves ; and closed 
with saying, “ I hope I shall be able to be of some use 
to you, my dear father : and if you will spare Joe to 
me, I will do what I can for him.” 

Mr. Kemp. I do not think we ought to let him go 
till Michaelmas next. His master has had him all 
the dead weather ; and it would not be decent and 
Christian-like, to take him away now his busy time is 
coming. 

Michael . Very true ; and it will suit me better to 
have him when I am settled. 

It was with some regret they parted, though there 
was a promise that, should a gracious Providence 
bless them with life and health, they would meet ere 
the summer should pass by. 

Michael reached the Brow in safety, and in the 


188 


THE HISTORY OF 


evening he requested a moment’s converse with Mrs. 
Finch. He told her his resolution to pay her £100 
per annum, at four quarterly payments of £25 each ; 
and that, should he not succeed in business, he should 
not fail, he hoped, to give her timely notice. 

She was extremely affected by his noble resolution, 
and said, “ She had no doubt but he would prosper ; 
he was so good.” Michael shook his head, and Mrs. 
Finch said, “ It is always the case, the best people 
think least of themselves. As soon as my poor dear 
brother was so perfect that nobody could mend him, 
he called himself a miserable sinner.” 

On Sunday morning, the whole of the Brow family 
appeared at church in respectable mourning, and with 
decency, down to the meanest domestic ; such is the 
force of good regulations in a family. Many were 
the comments of the young ladies of the village on 
the improvement in Michael’s looks ; and many were 
the flutterings of their vanity on the idea of a new 
farmer, and a young farmer, at the Brow. 

One cannot help pitying the misguided conduct of 
parents and relations on such occasions as these. 
“ He will make a good husband, I ’ve no doubt,” said 
the mother of one. “ He has kept his father off the 
parish ; at least, that ’s what I hears,” said another. 

But to return to a better subject. Mr. Lascelles 
chose for his text Paul’s defence : 11 1 am not mad , 
most noble Festus ; but speak forth the words of truth 
and soberness.” It would be too long for our purpose 
to give the whole of the sermon ; a short extract may 
suffic e : — 

“To the world the Christian appears as a madman : 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


189 


■what say the Scriptures? ‘We fools accounted his 
life madness, and his end to be without honor : How 
is he numbered among the children of God, and his 
lot is among the saints !’ This will be the reflection 
of every mind at the close of such a life as that of 
the departed. How often have I heard the people of 
this village wondering what was come to our risen 
friend ! • This was come to him : his eyes were 
opened, he beheld himself a sinner ; he sat at the 
feet of his Savior ; he opened his neglected Bible ; 
he gave willingly to the poor ; every eye looked on 
him with gratitude, and every tongue blessed him. 
This was come to him : the hardness of his heart 
was melted ; his love to God and his love to man 
flowed in a fertilizing stream through the latter years 
of his mortal existence. Peace was in his bosom ; 
that peace which a trifling world cannot understand ; 
and it appeared in every action to the glory of Him 
who had called him from darkness to light, and raised 
him from the death of sin to the life of righteousness. 
Man may be charmed with the science of poetry, 
painting, or music ; but if, warmed by the prospect of 
bliss, immortal bliss, he should speak with rapture of 
the joys of heaven, he is mad ! If he regulates his 
life, he is a methodist. If he cannot mix with pro- 
fane people, he is dull and insipid ; he sets up for a 
saint, &c. And is this all ? Is this all the persecu- 
tion we have to bear ? It is all. I do not say, it 
would be all, did not the law restrain. Deep bitter- 
ness and malignity appear in these low murmurings ; 
but not a hair of your head shall perish. He who 
careth for the sparrows, he who rideth in the whirl- 


190 


THE HISTORY OF 


wind, he who is in the still small voice, he shall guide 
you with his counsel, and afterward receive you to 
glory. ‘ What is truth V said Pilate. There is no 
truth in the world and its maxims. What is sober- 
ness 1 The world’s cup is full of intoxications. 
* Touch not, taste not, handle not.’ Get thee to thy 
chamber, shut-to thy door ; pray unto Him that seeth 
in secret, he shall reward thee openly.” 

Mrs. Finch thought the sermon was preached at 
her. It might appear so ; but it was not the case. Mr. 
Lascelles was too wise to make any direct applica- 
tions in his sermon ; but he spared no sin and folly 
because he was surrounded by sin and folly. What- 
ever conscience dictated him, that he touched ; and, 
like an able surgeon walking through his hospital, 
looked carefully into all the varieties of disease, and 
applied, as necessity required, the knife, the caustic, 
or the emollient ; and, where lethargy prevailed, 
roused his patient with pungent applications. 

Mrs. Finch could not help telling Michael, when 
she returned to the house, what had been her feelings 
during the sermon ; and remarked, that she did not 
think Mr. Lascelles would have pointed her out so 
publicly. 

Michael assured her it was what had been said of 
his master by many others long before he was ill, and 
that he thought Mr. Lascelles’s motive in clearing 
that point was, the fear that such a charge as madness 
might render his example less striking. “ And,” said 
Michael, “ certainly my poor dear master did shine so 
after he became a Christian, that his memory may be 
as useful as his example.” Mrs. Finch very gravely 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


191 


replied, that her brother was always a good Chris- 
tian ; he always kept his church, she never knew him 
swear, he never got drunk. Michael was silent : he 
felt that he had gone too far ; that respect became him. 

As Michael was to set off the next morning by six, 
he went down to Mr Lascelles, who permitted any 
of his parishioners who wished it to join his family wor- 
ship. He was just in time, and with great pleasure 
perceived James Brown among the family servants. 
Mr. Lascelles had thrown out a portico to the front- 
door, not to add beauty to the house, but to enlarge the 
hall. It was carried out the whole width, and ac- 
commodated the people greatly on Sunday evenings. 
A good lamp lit the hall ; and it was pleasing to ob- 
serve the orderly arrangement of this little group : 
the benevolent countenance of the good pastor, as he 
familiarly conversed on these best of subjects with 
his cleanly village-children, and the reverent atten- 
tion of the elder branches of his audience, while he 
affectionately addressed them on the maturer duties 
and later fruits of Christian life ; while he called on 
them to observe, from their own experience, how 
faithful God was to his promises. 

When the little party broke up, Michael waited, 
and respectfully drew near the table where Mr. Las- 
celles was sitting. 

Michael. I returned last evening, sir, from P . 

Mr. Walker sent you his affectionate regards. 

Mr. Lascelles had risen from his seat, had drawn 
the arm of his wife within his own, and turning to 
her, said, “ My love, this is the young man of whom 


192 


THE HISTORY OF 


you have heard me speak, and to whom the excellent 
Farmer Moss has left the Brow farm.” 

Mrs. Lascelles’s countenance wore a smile of 
kindness. 

Mr. Lascelles. But you must not stand here, my 
love, for the wind blows cold. Go, my little girls. 
Mr. Kemp, walk in for a little. 

Michael bowed, and stepped across the hall to 
James. “ I am very glad to see you, James ; stop for 
me a little : I should like to walk home with you.” 
James said he certainly would ; and Michael hastened 
to the parlor-door, which was left open for him. 

Mr. Lascelles put a chair, and begged him to be 
seated ; walked up to him, and half-bending, inquired 
how he had settled about the Brow. Michael related 
his plan. Mr. Lascelles said, “ I hope you have not 
burdened yourself; the expenses of that farm are 
great : its high situation and its variety of surface 
render it very fatiguing to the horses.” 

Michael. Yes, sir ; 1 know it all ; but — 

Mr. Lascelles. Well, young man ; you have acted 
as a Christian ought to act, and I shall say no more. 

Michael rose, took leave, and found James waiting 
for him just within the portico. It was a clear light 
evening, though cold ; and as they bent their way to 
Westrip’s, James began to unfold his mind to Michael. 

James. I little thought I should ever be of your 
mind ; but I have suffered a good deal since I saw 
you last, Michael. I suppose you have heard by the 
papers that Robert and that old gipsy-grandfather are 
both gone to Botany-Bay : and I suppose you know 
that Mrs. Priddel is dying of the dropsy ; and that no- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


193 


body lakes any heed to Cicely Jones, for she ’s a 
noted bad character. I ’m sure I do wonder, so much 
as I knew about ’em all, as ever Mr. Lascelles should 
a taken me into his service. I think I ’m not worthy 
to clean anybody’s shoes ; and if ever I should get to 
heaven, I thinks I should be the worst as ever did 
get there. If you knew all the wicked things as 
corn’d into my head, I think you would be afraid to 
walk with me when the moon goes under a cloud. 

Michael. Do you give way to wicked thoughts ? 
do you indulge them 1 

James. No, no ! they are my torment. I never 
give way to them : but I know I deserve to suffer, and 
I shall suffer ; for I always hated religion ; and I ’m 
eating of the fruits o’ my own ways, and I heard my 
uncle say once as I should. 

Michael had for some time been wavering in his 
own mind what reply to make to all this. He well 
knew the lightness of Jem’s nature, and how easy it 
was to comfort him in general ; and was not at all 
sorry to find the work in his mind a deep one. As 
they drew near Westrip’s cottage, Michael thought 
he would say thus much to him : “ If God had not 
purposes of mercy for you, he would not thus show 
you the evil of your own heart. I have read the re- 
mark somewhere, ‘ God never opens those wounds 
which he does not mean to heal ” and his finger 
Was on the latch of Westrip’s door. 

The old man was very glad to see Michael. All 
his kindness for so many years to his nephew had 
made a deep impression on the honest man’s heart ; 
and when he saw him, it was with that sort of vener- 
17 


194 


THE HISTORY OF 


ation with which we look upon a being eminently 
good. 

He could only press the hand of the uncle and the 
nephew, and run home. Mrs. Finch had indeed won- 
dered at the length of his stay. He told her where 
he had been, and with whom, for it was one part of 
his character to have no mystery. 

Mrs. Finch. We must settle something, Mr. Kemp. 
I desired William not to go to bed till you came in, 
that you might leave orders. 

Michael felt the awkwardness of his new situation, 
and would gladly have slept through the coming month 
of his existence ; but, as Mrs. Finch said, “ something 
must be done,” he said, “ I ’ll step out, ma’am, and 
speak to William.” 

William was waiting by the kitchen fire. He rose 
and said, “ I feels comical-like, sir : I be sorry for 
them as is gone, and I be glad for them as is come. 
It sha’ n’t be my fault, Master Kemp, if you do n’t 
prosper. I sha’ n’t spare myself, I do assure ye ; for 
I hopes as ye do n’t mean to turn me off.” 

Michael. No, indeed, William ; I have too good an 
opinion of you to wish to part with you. 

William. What, I suppose you have forgotten the 
time as you let me in in the night ? 

Michael. No, William ; I remember it very well, 
and 1 ’m glad you remember it. 

William. You won’t catch me at that again, mas- 
ter ; I likes quiet sleep too well. 

Michael. I must leave you in trust here, William. 
Perhaps you could get Westrip and his wife to stay 
here till I return : and I must fix the time, too. [He 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


195 


stepped back to Mrs. Finch.] Would it be convenient 
to you, madam, to spare me a fortnight ? 

Airs. Finch. If I studied my own convenience, Mr. 
Kemp, I should not spare you at all. I have known 
so little care since you have been with me, that I 
never expect such tranquillity again. But we must 
not waste time : in a fortnight, then — 

When Miss Jemima went out of the room, Michael 
thought it right to mention to his mistress what had 
passed about Stephen, and to say he thought a sepa- 
ration necessary. 

Mrs. Finch. Oh ! I think you had better take Ste- 
phen with you ; for as for my Jemima, she is so fond 
of Fanny, that, in the present state of her mind, to 
take F anny away would be really cruel : and, to say 
the truth, Fanny is a sweet creature, and it would go 
hard with me to part with her just now. I can but 
admire Mr. Stephen’s good taste, though I think your 
sister might do better. It’s an honest family, but 
poor : and I think many a young farmer would be glad 
of such a wife as Fanny. 

Michael. No, madam ; I do n’t think any good can 
come from going out of one’s station. I had rather 
see my sister the wife of the worthy Stephen, than 
of any man I know. 

I must now tell the reader what passed in Mrs. 
Finch’s mind : “ So, then, Jemima will never be 
asked to the Brow Farm.” This thought, this passing 
thought, was never known to any one but the author, 
and is committed in perfect confidence to the reader. 

The business of life, though necessary to be per- 
formed, and all its minor duties, though forming a 


296 


THE HISTORY OF 


part in the great whole, make no figure in description. 
But there is one part of this fortnight it may be useful 
to record. 

Michael felt that in the vrorld’s eye this change of 
circumstances seemed highly advantageous ; but to 
him who had never known want, and whose present 
situation was so tranquil, so respectable, it was a 
change merely external as to comfort : and he felt 
the new and responsible duties of a sole master. The 
guidance of a large concern required wisdom beyond 
his own : and perhaps some extracts from his little 
morocco pocket-book may give the reader the best 
idea of Michael’s view of his own station : — 

“January 12. — My dear master gone to glory. 
4 Let me die the death of the righteous.’ January 18. 
— The mortal remains committed to the ground. 
* Sown in weakness, raised in power.’ My master 
has left me considerable property. 4 Who am I, and 
what is my father’s house, that Thou hast brought me 
hitherto V I must talk to Mr. Lascelles. I must go 
to Mr. Walker. Above all, I must get me to my knees. 
O Lord, forsake me not now, in this time of my pros- 
perity. Suffer not riches, business, and the cares of 
this world, to shorten my intercourse with Thee ! Let 
me not be satisfied with broken cisterns : let me only 
drink from them with satisfaction when presented by 
thy hand. If thy presence go not with me, suffer me 
not to go thither. Sunday evening. — Heard Mr. 
Lascelles : a most striking sermon. 4 I am not mad,’ 
&c. Went in the evening to the rectory. One ob- 
servation he made, in addressing the little children, 
bending his eye toward their watchful countenances : 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


197 


* When ye pray, my little ones, ask for just what ye 
want. A little form is very good, to fix your minds ; 
but be sure to ask for something before you rise from 
your knees — something that you feel you want.* In 
addressing the elders, he said, 4 Do not go before 
Providence. We are too apt, even with the best in- 
tentions, to meddle too much with God’s works. Wait; 
learn his will, as circumstances arise. Search the 
Scriptures : see what your duty is in such a case. 
4 Wherewithal shall a young man cleanse his way ? 
By taking heed thereto according to thy word.’ O 
may I thus cleanse my ways !” 

It had been Michael’s custom to pray twice each 
day ; and he usually read a little of the Scriptures at 
noon. He now felt he wanted clearer light. He 
seemed putting to sea alone ; and he felt convinced 
that the vessel must sink if the Savior were not in it. 
His memorandum on Tuesday evening run thus : — 

“ My poor Fanny has greatly affected me : ‘Will 
you leave me, my dear brother V Lord, undertake 
for me ; for I know not what to do. Thursday eve. 
— I have written to my father about Fanny. Stephen 
is hardly willing to go with me : but upon this subject 
I am resolved. I see, I know it to be right. Satur- 
day evening. — Lord, lead me rightly. I think Fan- 
ny’s mind something softened toward her stay here. 
The friendship of her mistress, the kindness of Miss 
Jemima — how true is that Scripture : 4 godliness is 
profitable for the life that now is !’ Thursday morn- 
ing. — The time draws on: a few more days, and 
I must quit this scene, where I have received so 
much kindness ; where every creature under the roof 
17 * 


198 


THE HISTORY OF 


hath shown me respect and love. Lord, reward them 
sevenfold into their bosom. Be gracious unto me 
according to the multitude of thy mercies ! Saturday 
evening. — How hast thou made all that I dreaded to 
pass away as a dream ! My mistress is more than 
satisfied with my conduct ; my sister is content to 
stay ; Stephen makes no further objection. It is thy 
doing, O Lord ! Thou hast the hearts of all in thy 
hands ! And now, as I must soon quit this scene, 
may thy guidance mark my way. As for me and my 
house, may we serve the Lord !” 

On the Sunday afternoon, Michael took his beloved 
sister into the garden : “ And now, my precious Fan- 
ny, do not you be cast down : remember that God is 
nigh thee. I think it is good for thee, Fanny, to be 
obliged to take counsel of the Lord. You often come 
to me with — ‘ What shall I do now, brother ? What 
ought I to say now, brother V You see, my precious 
Fanny, your heavenly Father will have you come to 
himself : and there must be no one between you and 
your God.” 

Miss Jemima just then crossed the path ; and Mi- 
chael said, “ I am just speaking to my sister, madam ; 
and if you would add to all the favors you have shown 
me since I have been in your mother’s house, I would 
request that you would press upon my dear sister not 
to let her nice Bible lie unopened. Fanny, those neat 
gilded leaves have often made my heart ache !” 

Fanny colored ; for she knew the charge was true : 
her Bible had been too little read. Jemima, with that 
modesty and discretion which had ever distinguished 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


199 


her, said, “ I hope, Mr. Kemp, your advice will be 
useful to us both.” 

Monday morning came ; and, without the indulgence 
of one farewell to any creature at the Valley, except 
the following short letter to his mistress, Michael and 
Stephen set off at the dawn. Perhaps the reader may 
excuse the intrusion of this letter ; it will serve to fill 
up the chasm between the Valley and the Brow, for 
neither Michael nor Stephen were much disposed to 
speak : — 

“ Madam : Accept in few words my warm grati- 
tude for all your goodness to me. I have left the ac- 
count sealed in the wainscot desk, with an inventory 
of the state of the cattle, the stock of all kinds, farm- 
ing implements not excepted ; where repairs are want- 
ing, and what you had better sell. I hope I have 
been clear, and that what you have put under my hand 
has been taken care of. If at any time my coming 
to you could be of any service ; if you would like 
your son to spend a little time with me for experience 
and instruction in farming ; remember your poor ser* 
vant is still your servant. God bless you, madam ! 
God bless your house ! May your goodness to me 
be rewarded into your own bosom 1 prays your hum- 
ble servant, “ Michael Kemp.” 





200 


THE HISTORY OF 


CHAPTER VII. 

Dr. Johnson says, very truly, that “ the busy rarely 
die of grief.” Our two good young men found much 
to do in their new abode ; and though they remem- 
bered Fanny, and missed her sadly, yet every day’s 
employment brought its weariness, and weariness 
brought repose ; and repose calmed the troubled bo- 
som ; and time soothed the separation. When they 
could not see, they thought of, their friends : the post- 
man rose in importance ; and the reader will not be 
surprised to hear that Stephen was uneasy if his mas- 
ter did not get a letter at the time expected. But I 
am happy to inform them that this young man was 
learning gradually and willingly the lesson of submis- 
sion. He was introduced to Mr. Lascelles, who was 
extremely struck, first with his person, and lastly with 
the unfolding of his Christian temper, in his humble 
deportment, and active, steady walk in the path of 
daily duty. And in preaching one Sunday on “ Be- 
hold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth !” after 
warning his Christian hearers to pray constantly and 
fervently, “ Set a watch before my mouth, and keep 
the door of my lips in his usual animated way, he 
said, “ But it is not only the fire of anger which a lit- 
tle spark kindleth : I have seen the fire of love to 
God, at first confined to a very humble bosom, gradu- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


201 


ally caught by those with whom it dwelt ; spreading 
wider and wider ; appearing in acts of kindness, in 
steady uprightness, in much patience, in self-knowl- 
edge, in love of souls, seasoning the conversation ! 
Oh, that you who fear the Lord would speak often one 
to another. A book of remembrance is kept. Per- 
haps you will say, ‘ I am afraid of hypocrisy.’ But 
wherefore should it be hypocrisy to speak of the lov- 
ing-kindness of the Lord ? to speak of those hopes 
which form the best part of our existence ? Some 
modest Christian soul may be complaining in himself, 
‘ Would that 1 could speak of God !’ If such there 
are in this congregation, let their prayer be, ‘ Open 
Thou my mouth, that I may show forth thy praise.’ ” 

Thus he warned his hearers from week to week : 
thus he counselled. “ He was a burning and a shi- 
ning light.” The fire which illuminated his soul was 
a light upon a hill. 

I shall not weary the reader with the malignity of 
many in his neighborhood : how many, who could not 
imitate, laughed at him ; how some, who thought 
drunkenness delight, despised his sobriety ; how oth- 
ers, who hated his religion, fancied dulness in his dig- 
nity, and hypocrisy in his smile. It was a fire that 
blazed for a short season ; but, augmented by no op- 
position save by the holy life of him whom they per- 
secuted, it went out of itself, and they were constrain- 
ed openly to venerate the man whom secretly they 
could not endure. They could not ridicule him, for 
he was above it. They could not censure, he walked 
too correctly ; and all they could say was, that he was 
too strict, and, with the same breath, that he was too 


202 


THE HISTORY OF 


lax : that, if you believed, you might do what you 
liked. In short, Envy died a miserable death : she 
was starved. 

In the course of the summer they had many meet- 
ings with James Brown, whose change was evident 
to every eye ; whose gay face became too grave to do 
credit to the cause of God, and was more like to injure 
it than to advance it. “ Poor Jem Brown !” said one. 
“ Poor Jem Brown !” exclaimed another. 

Old Westrip being addressed by one in the follow- 
ing manner, made a reply which I think did him cred- 
it : “ Your ne*phew looks mighty sad, Mr. Westrip ; I 
suppose he ’s turned religious.” 

Westrip. I wish he may turn religious. 

“ Why does he look so dull, Mr. Westrip ?” 

W estrip. I ’ll tell ye : he ’s gone a wandering out 
of the road ; he has lost his shepherd ; but he ’s turned 
back and looking after him. He ’s been eating husks 
with the swine, and he ’s turning to his father’s house ; 
he ’s not got there yet ; the walk is long, and he ’s 
dirty, sir. 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ I mean as the sin of his youth sticks close. I 
mean as he can’t shake off the remembrance of his 
bad company, bad words, bad actions ; and he not only 
sorrows for himself, but for you, and for many more 

who are going to , who are not going to heaven,” 

said Westrip ; who had very nearly said a very plain 
thing, till he remembered Mr. Lascelles had said, 
<{ No man was ever scolded into Christianity.” 

The person to whom this was spoken, said West- 
rip was a very uncharitable man ; and next day the 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


203 


wife attacked him : “ So, Mr. Clark, we are all going 

to the d together ?” “ I pray ye may not,” said 

the impenetrable Westrip, and walked quietly on, 
with his hands behind him ; and next day they found 
all their onions gone, and their nice flowers trampled 
down. “ The works of their father they will do,” 
said the poor old man, as they put their nice little gar- 
den in order. 

On James this event had a painful effect. “ Wher- 
ever I go I bring trouble : I ’ll go to master, and tell 
him as I have a mind to go away out of the country.” 

The discourse between James and his master was 
long and effectual. One observation seemed written 
on his heart : “ this gloom is not religion : ’t is a tempt- 
ation of the evil one. ‘ Son, be of good cheer ; thy 
sins are forgiven thee !’ ” 

It is not in my pen to help the reader to form any 
idea of the tone and manner of this excellent man at 
this moment ; but I can feel it, and Jem felt it. He 
was lighted : strength was given him to believe that 
Scripture, and to apply it. I do not say he never 
walked heavily, but never so heavily. “ Lord, I be- 
lieve ; help thou mine unbelief!” was in his heart 
many times : but he saw the evil of a gloomy counte- 
nance ; he was careful that those who felt light under 
the burden of sin should not say, holiness was misery, 
and religion’s ways were ways of wretchedness. 
He took care not to bewilder their ignorant minds, 
and bring an evil report on the good land they had not 
as yet visited. He became eminently good ; he was 
the comfort of his kind uncle ; and when Westrip 
would sometimes speak of the malignity of the irre- 


204 


THE HISTORY OF 


ligious, Jem’s reply was, “ Uncle, never let us men- 
tion them but upon our knees.” 

About this time Cicely Jones was sent in a bad 

state of health from the parish of to Dover- 

dale. Jem was determined to visit her, and he took 
his aunt with him. She was lodged with a very 
strict church-going person, whose prayer-book and 
spectacles, wrapped in a Sunday pocket-handkerchief, 
in a clean paper box, went into their weekly apart- 
ment, and made no small portion of her Sunday de- 
votion. 

When James and his aunt reached the cottage, 
Mrs. Sturges was nailing up some pretty shoots of her 
late-blowing honeysuckles, and her monthly rose ; and 
made a dead stand at her open door, with a look in- 
tended to forbid their entrance ; but James did not 
regard it. “ Is Cicely Jones here, Mrs. Sturges ?” — 
“ Yes, James Brown : but she does not see company ; 
she is very ill.” James and his aunt slipped by. The 
poor creature was seated by the fire, in the last stage 
of a consumption. Her hollow eyes wandered over 
James’s features ; and when she recollected him, she 
seemed to shudder, and closed them again. Dame 
Westrip took her hand : “ Could ye take anything ?” 
“ No — no!” and she closed her eyes again. They 
left her. 

Mr. Lascelles went, as soon as he heard of it, and 
offered every assistance ; but it was too late. Death 
had seized his prey ; and it might be said of Cicely 
Jones, that her lamp was put out in obscure darkness ! 

Michael was not without difficulties in his new sit- 
uation. Everything without doors prospered, but his 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


205 


domestic management was uncomfortable. He and 
Stephen both felt it. He reflected within himself — 
“ If I was even to ask my mother to come for a time, 
the children would suffer, and I could not be happy 
to put them to inconvenience at home. The giddi- 
ness of those I have here interferes with our comfort. 
Something must be done.” 

He took a walk down to Westrip’s, to consult the 
good old woman. She said, “ Sir, if you could get a 
steady body like me to be about — ” 

Michael smiled. “ Why such a body as you would 
just suit me, Mrs. Westrip.” — “ Sir, I was thinking 
there ’s one of Mr. Lascelles’s spinning-women as 
can’t stand out-door business : she is come to decay, 
like ; seen better days ; tender, not old. Will you 
try her, sir ? She is not more than fifty-five. When 
she was in her prosperity, there was not a genteeler 
body, nor a neater : and if you ’d spend a pound or 
two in dressing her, I ’m sure I ’d help to make her 
clothes ; and I think she ’d suit well. And then [low- 
ering her tone] she ’s so religious she would not have 
a bit of waste where she was. And then she ’s so 
clean — ” 

Dame Westrip’s character of this good woman de- 
termined Michael. She was sent for. Her appear- 
ance justified the character that had been given. 
She was very thin. Her meek countenance seemed 
to say, “All is right that my heavenly Father pro- 
vides and when she heard the proposal to live with 
the good young farmer at the Brow, her upcast eye 
seemed to say, “ Lord, it is thy doing !” and then 
looking down on her coarse and homely dress — “ I 
18 


206 


THE HISTORY OF 


be n’t hardly fit to come into your house.” — “Oh, 
Betty Smith ! Mr. Kemp will take care of that for 
you.” 

The poor old woman could say nothing. She was 
overcome ; and Michael asked her when it would suit 
her to take up her abode with him. “ When, sir, 
would it please you to have me?” — “Why, Betty 
Smith,” said Mrs. Westrip, “it w r ould take us some 
time to get ready.” 

The honest creature stood between Michael and 
dame Westrip, ready to obey orders, without a will or 
a wish. Michael’s heart and Betty’s were occupied 
much in the same manner. He thought God had sent 
him a servant, while she thought God had provided 
her a place. The reader will not be surprised to hear 
that such a hiring prospered. Betty became all that 
Michael wanted. She had but one defect in his eye : 
she could not bear to act without his orders, and in- 
door orders were to Michael a complete worry. “ You 
know I shall be pleased, Betty Smith ; I wish you 
would not tease me and Betty would go out of the 
room smiling, and yet half-vexed — “How can one 
tell what master will like when he never will say ?” 

Having settled this good young man’s domestic af- 
fairs comfortably, we must take a view of his religious 
order. The boys about his farm had always some 
time in the week allowed for play, that they might 
never be tempted to break the sabbath. 

Mr. W alker had been in the habit of explaining the 
Commandments so familiarly, that Michael perfectly 
remembered the exercises of his youth, and what had 
profited himself, he wisely thought might profit them. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


207 


His morning and evening prayers were short, but ex- 
pressive ; and there is reason to think that the affec- 
tionate interest these prayers expressed for the salva- 
tion of those under his roof, touched the hearts of 
many of his servants : as for William, he thought his 
master, though to be sure not quite perfect, yet pretty 
nigh to’t; and when, as Michael would sometimes 
say, “ If I live I will do this or that,” William would 
constantly say, “ Ah ! master, don’t you talk of dying, 
you can’t be spared ; nobody in this village can spare 
you, master.” He had so frequently said this, that 
Michael thought himself wrong in permitting it to 
pass ; and he thus addressed him : “ William, the 
quiet in which you live with me deceives you ; and 
you judge, because I do not make my family unhap- 
py, that I am perfect. The internal struggles of my 
mind with sin convince me that perfection is only in 
God. Nevertheless, let us strive to walk uprightly, 
though on this side Jordan is not our rest. I can 
never feel internal peace when I look from Him who 
redeemed me : with my eye there , on his cross, all is 
safe, all is peace. ‘ It is finished — ‘ My grace is 
sufficient for thee — ‘Go thy way, thy faith hath 
saved thee — * Look unto me, and be ye saved — 
these are my supports. I am a poor creature : I am 
fond of a good name. If you love me, and I believe 
you do, join not the enemies of my soul in exalting 
me in my own sight. If you speak, William, of my 
not being spared, remember, God can raise up instru- 
ments for his own purposes. When it best pleases 
him, he is able of stones to raise up children unto 
Abraham ; and as for me, William, I repeat it, if you 


208 


THE HISTORY OF 


really love me, and wish to keep me, do not provoke 
the Lord by setting up a man for your idol. Trust 
not in man, whose breath is in his nostrils, for where- 
in is he to be accounted of ? God has been wonder- 
fully gracious unto me, William ; and I count it among 
my highest privileges to be surrounded by loving 
spirits, and that for the most part my servants are 
God’s servants : but, oh ! my faithful servant, pray for 
me. I have so few trials at present, and it is so much 
the nature of ungrateful man to forget God in pros- 
perity, that it is a wise and suitable petition — ‘ In all 
time of our wealth, good Lord, deliver us.’ In times 
of our adversity we get us to our Lord right humbly ; 
but when we sail with summer breezes, upon a smooth 
sea, how flattering to the evil of our hearts is the 
prosperous gale !” 

The reader may now, probably, have no objection 
to visit the Valley for a short time, and to learn how 
Fanny had borne the absence of her brother. She 
became increasingly useful, and Jemima was so very 
fond of her, that they frequently sat together (in fine 
weather) to their work in the garden ; and it was in 
these seasons of industry and rural quiet that Jemima 
read Mr. Newton’s 0 micron and Cardiphonia, ex- 
plaining, as she went along, all the parts she thought 
F anny would not understand. These books were read 
and read again ; and Jemima ventured one day to ask 
her mother if she should read some very nice letters 
to her. She chose those three : Grace in the Blade, 
Grace in the Ear, &c. Mrs. Finch was very much 
struck with them : but it is not very easy for persons 
of her character to give up old opinions, especially 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


209 


when they come from persons younger than them- 
selves, and from suspected persons ; for she really 
thought Jemima had gotten little good attending her 
uncle at the Brow ; and though there was nothing she 
could censure, she thought her too precise, and too 
particular. However the book was read, and those 
three letters, again and again ; and it was lent to Mr. 
Cooper, who, when he opened the volume, said, 
" Yes, yes ; I remember this man : he was one of the 
wickedest people that ever lived. Very extraordinary 
life that ! I forget how many years he preached in 
London, at a church in Lombard street. It is an odd 
thing, he was very much respected by his bishop.” 

Two texts fastened on the mind of Mr. C. while he 
was talking : “Ye must be born again and, “ Ex- 
cept ye be converted, and become as little children,” 
&c. Mr. C. could not get them out of his head. He 
had never thought much of them before ; and what 
connexion they could have with Newton, of whom he 
was speaking, he could not conjecture. “ The anato- 
my of the human mind is as wonderful as that of the 
body !” said he, in closing the book. 

The year rolled round. Peace and prosperity 
seemed settled at the Brow and at the Valley. But 
Stephen’s paradise was imperfect; he wanted his Eve. 
He had been very honorable ; he had not even spoken 
to Michael on the subject till the time was past. 

As they were together one evening, in that twilight 
which gives courage to speak on subjects we could 
not otherwise touch, Michael admiring a rich sunset, 
with his back to a very good fire ; Stephen began : — 

“ I was thinking, sir — ” 

18 * 


210 


THE HISTORY OF 


Michael made no reply. — Stephen began again : — 

“ 1 was thinking perhaps you could spare me for a 
day or two : I should like to go and see my father and 
mother.” 

Michael unclasped his hands ; put one upon Ste- 
phen’s shoulder, and, with that Christian frankness 
which distinguished him, said, “ You shall go, Ste- 
phen ; and you shall see my sister too ; and the Lord 
prosper you !” 

There was a silence of some minutes ; when Ste- 
phen, rising, said, “ Your goodness, sir, to me is great 
indeed !” 

“ Not at all, Stephen ; I am very sensible of your 
worth. In committing Fanny to your care, I do my- 
self a pleasure.” 

Stephen’s departure was fixed for the following 
Friday ; the day after Christmas Day. 

It is an old road : we will not talk about it. Ste- 
phen really did not know how he passed the mile- 
stones. The journey seemed long, and yet his mind 
was so busy that he scarcely remembered one object 
on the road ; but the words of Michael, “ The Lord 
prosper you !” had settled in his bosom like a proph- 
ecy ; and he felt as though the Lord would prosper 
him. 

Williamson was the first object he saw when he 
arrived at the Valley. 

“ Ste — Ste — Stephen, thee be ’s grown ; why, thee 
art a stout man ! What art come for, Steph ?” 

This was an unfortunate question. At length, Wil- 
liamson, scratching his head, said, “ I hope Master 
Kemp ’s well ?” 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


211 


Stephen, very glad of this turn to the conversation, 
assured Williamson that his master was quite well ; 
and greatly enlarged upon the comforts of the Brow, 
to prevent the recurrence of “ what he was come for.” 

The news soon ran through the Valley Farm that 
Stephen was come from the Brow ; and Fanny threw 
down her work, and ran out : “ Oh ! Mr. Stephen, 
how is my dear brother ?” — “ Quite well ; and sends 
his love.” 

Stephen had puzzled as he rode along ; and at last 
he settled, if it held fair, that he would ask Fanny to 
walk with him to the Level-bit, as he had something 
to tell her from her brother. Fanny ran in again to 
her mistress, and told her Stephen’s request, and ad- 
ded, “ I can’t think what it is, ma’am ; I hope noth- 
ing ’s the matter at P .” — “ I hope not, child,” 

said Mrs. Finch : “ put on your cloak directly, and go 
with him.” 

In the meantime she stepped into the great kitchen 
to see Stephen, and to question him. As she went 
along, the thought crossed her mind of what Michael 
had confided to her at the time of her brother’s death. 

Mrs. Finch was a good-natured woman, and there 
was no intricacy in her character. She took no 
pleasure in puzzling and confounding people ; so she 
simply contented herself with saying, “ I hope all is 
well, Stephen.” — “Yes, madam.” — “You have 
something to say to Fanny?” — “Yes, madam.” — 
“ Have you seen James, my son ?” — “ No, madam ; 
I hope he is well ; and Miss Jemima.” — “ He is gone 
skating somewhere.” 

The walkers set out : and, as in the opinion of the 


212 


THE HISTORY OF 


•writer these scenes should be entirely private, it is 
hoped that the reader will be satisfied with hearing 
that Stephen declared himself; that Fanny was hon- 
estly surprised ; and that, before Stephen had his 
thumb on the latch of the Level-bit, his future pros- 
pects were settled under the illuminations of hope. 

“ Oh!” said Ellen, “ here is our Stephen and Fan- 
ny !” The mother slipped down stairs to welcome 
the pride of her heart and her dear Fanny. “ Sit 
down,- my dear children ; sit down.” The word had 
escaped her ; she did not attempt to mend it. 

It was a pleasant group just then : Frank ran in 
with his little hands red with the cold. He looked as- 
tonished when he saw Fanny, and still more at Ste- 
phen ; and was just making his way to climb Fanny’s 
knee, when the mother, vexed at the interruption, said, 
“ Child, why dost n’t thee get out to play?” — “ O 
mother !” said young Ellen, “ why he is stiff with the 
cold!” and she took him from Fanny, and began to 
rub his little feet and hands. 

“ And how long are ye to ’bide with us, Stephen ?” 
said his mother. “ Till Tuesday morning.” — “ El- 
len, you shall go down to the Valley, and beg Mrs. 
Finch to spare Fanny to spend Sunday with us. Your 
father will be at home that day.” 

Stephen. [Thoughtfully.] True, mother ; she can 
come with me from church. 

Meredith met his son with a father’s pleasure, and 
Stephen looked on his family with but one abatement. 
Lovely in their persons, admirable in their habits and 
characters, there was an» air of self-satisfaction in all 
they did and said : not a wish from the heart beyond 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


213 


this world ! What to say he knew not ; yet some- 
thing ought to be said. 

His mind was easy as to Fanny; for on the road 
she had spoken of her brother’s excellent principles, 
and had assured Stephen that his having chosen the 
good way was her principal inducement to accept him. 

Stephen and his father walked together to the 
church ; for it was one of Ellen Meredith’s bad habits 
to stay at home every Sunday morning, after dressing 
all her children, to cook the Sunday’s dinner. This 
she did with her usual neatness ; and few persons, 
who have servants to do everything for them, head 
their table more delicately clean than Ellen Meredith, 
after performing every office of the kitchen. But the 
enemy of mankind is in nothing more subtle than in 
his temptations ; and, as he tempts some with pride, 
some with sloth, so he tempted Ellen Meredith with 
cleanliness. She would have gone to church ; but she 
must get her husband’s bit of dinner. Ellen might 
have remained sometimes ; but she loved to see her 
children go out clean on Sunday morning. She found 
a clean excuse for everything ; and if cleanliness was 
not godliness, it was next to it. Stephen thought that 
Scripture suited his mother — “ This ought ye to have 
done, and not to have left the other undone.” 

As Stephen and his father walked together to the 
church, and the six children before them, Ellen car- 
rying her pet brother, he said, “ I should be perfectly 
comfortable this morning, but for one thing, my dear 
father : it makes me quite unhappy to see my dear 
mother laboring every day, and Sunday, only for this 
world.” 


214 


THE HISTORY OF 


“ Somebody must stay at home, you know, Ste- 
phen,” said his father. It ’s a hard thing if I can’t 
have a bit of hot dinner on a Sunday.” 

“We have always cold meat at the Brow,” said 
Stephen. 

“ True, Stephen ; but you have a hot dinner every 
day : that is what your poor father never has.” 

Stephen remained silent : he had much feeling ; 
but he thought he would say one word more, and leave 
it. “ Could not Ellen and Willy take their turns ? I 
am sure, if I lived at home, I would. My mother 
should go out.” 

The father was proud of his boy ; not only of his 
person, but of his understanding : and Stephen’s piety 
had given him dignity in his family. “ What our 
Stephen will think of it !” and “ What our Stephen 
will say to it !” were common expressions among 
them. A word in due season is good. What Ste- 
phen said made impression ; and though Meredith 
was too fatherly to own it, his wife went to church 
ever after that, taking her turn for home with her two 
elder children. 

Excellent as Mrs. Finch’s management was, and 
regular as was her habit of reading a prayer with her 
servants morning and evening, there was a coldness in 
her devotions. It was like a beautiful statue of Piety: 
it wanted breath, it wanted warmth. Stephen felt the 
defect, but could scarcely tell how to describe it. 
Speaking of it to Fanny, in her way home to the Val- 
ley, she replied, “ O yes, I know what you mean ; but 
if you were to hear Miss Jemima talk ! If you were 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


215 


to hear her read the prayers, when her mother is out, 
it is so different.” 

The time flew ; and very reluctantly did Stephen 
remember that he was to set off on Tuesday morning 
though he was returning to his dear Mr. Kemp, and 
his pleasant duties at the Brow. He did not know 
that his kind master had considered all this ; that he 
had told Mrs. Finch, if it did not inconvenience her, 
he should be glad to have Fanny home in March. He 
did not tell Stephen for whom he had fitted up the 
mill-house so prettily, and Stephen thought his master 
was laying out a good deal of money : and he could 
not see the use of the new room adjoining the kitchen, 
and the pleasant little bedroom over it, before the win- 
dows of which waved the fine willows that hung over 
the stream. In short, Stephen was afraid that his 
kind master was going on rather too fast. Had not 
Michael designed a kindness, Stephen had been the 
confidant of his plan ; but it was not till Fanny was 
coming, that Michael said, “ Stephen, I think it would 
be proper for you to remove to the mill now.” — “ To 
the mill, sir ?” — “Yes, my dear fellow. I mean that 
house for Fanny’s dowry. I have purchased that 
piece of ground of my landlord. Mr. Lascelles has 
lent me the money to do it, and I have almost repaid 
him.” 

Stephen could only say, “ There never was such 

He left his sentence unfinished, for Michael 

walked away. 

Everything was prepared for Stephen’s removal ; 
and a fortnight before Fanny came, he settled at the 
mill : but he only slept there, taking his meals, as 


216 


THE HISTORY OF 


usual, at the Brow. About this time, Kemp’s father 
wrote him word that he thought to come and see him, 
as he had some things on his mind on which he wished 
to consult him. Michael replied, that he expected 
Fanny in a fortnight, and thought she would enjoy 
seeing him : he therefore wished his father to defer 
it till her arrival. 

Mr. Lascelles called in one morning, and inquired 
for Stephen. He was not in the way. He said, 
“ Mr. Kemp, I can speak to you, for I think you will 
do as well. I understand that your good Stephen is 
about to marry. Now I am one of the trustees of the 
Savings Bank ; and if he has laid by any money, I 
should advise him to lodge it there, as he will be re- 
ceiving immediate interest for the smallest sum.” 

Michael. I shall be glad to mention it to him, sir ; 
it will be a relief to my mind, as I have the little he 
has saved ; and it is one of the kindnesses I am least 
willing to perform — taking charge of other people’s 
money. 

Mr. Lascelles. It is an admirable institution ; and, 
I hope, will quietly undermine those pests of society, 
the alehouses. — Poor old Beal went to*rest this 
morning. 

Michael. Indeed, sir ! 

Mr. Lascelles. He could hardly be said to die : he 
turned on his side with a smile, closed his eyes, a 
slight flush came over his pale cheek, and he was 
gone ! And to see the stillness of the poor old wo- 
man after the event, as though she feared to disturb : 
her streaming eyes cast toward heaven, her aged 
hands clasped in each other : “ Forty-three years, sir, 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


217 


we have lived together. ’T is all over now !” and 
she walked out into her little back garden. Westrip’s 
wife is gone down, and has taken the needful people 
with her. Jem will feel this very much. I have great 
difficulty in persuading that young man that the prom- 
ises belong to him. How true it is that faith is the 
gift of God ! Do you often see him here ? 

Michael. No, sir ; but when I do , it is always with 
pleasure : religion is the main thing with him. He 
seems out of his element on every other subject. 

Mr. Lascellcs. James’s state of mind is precisely 
that of a person who has great business in hand, and 
is always angry with every one who brings forward 
another subject. I remarked, the other day, that as 
my poor gardener, who always makes an idol of the 
conservatory and his flower-garden, was talking with 
great delight to James of the beautiful show he should 
have this year, the expression of Jem’s countenance 
was, “ What does all this signify ? I have done with 
these things.” He did not speak ; but the gardener 
saw that he turned away, and took no interest in what 
so greatly delighted him. I observed the disappoint- 
ment in nis looks, and said, “ I really think we shall 
be very gay this season ; and I have a slight hope 
that I shall see a very old friend here, and shall like 
my garden to be in prime order.” James, who was 
leisurely sweeping, quickened his motions at this 
speech ; and yet there was a mixture of surprise in 
his look, that I should be interested in such trifles. I 
took him aside, and entered into conversation with 
him ; for I thought this an error not to be passed by. 
These extremes of young converts do great mischief 
19 • 


218 


THE HISTORY OF 


to the cause of God. To them it is a new road ; and 
their past lives appear with all the aggravated circum- 
stances of rebellion against a pure and holy God, the 
judge of all the earth ! and their minds are more agi- 
tated by the terrors of Sinai than composed by the 
breathing voice of peace in the conscience. They 
almost make a merit of their gravity, and think it sin- 
ful to enjoy even the common blessings of Providence ! 
Now my head-gardener is a Scotchman ; he has been 
brought up religiously, and has kept the even tenor of 
his way respectably. His little old Bible and his 
spectacles lie in one corner of our greenhouse ; and 
I have more than once seen him upon his knees, 
when he thought no eye but that of his heavenly Fa- 
ther was upon him. 

It should have been mentioned to the reader, that, 
about a fortnight after Michael settled at the Brow, he 
went to Mr. Lascelles, and said, very respectfully, he 
had a great favor to ask of him. “ Speak,” said Mr. 
Lascelles, “ for I scarcely think you would ask for 
anything which I could deny.” “ It is this, sir. As 
I have resolved that as for me and my hous^we will 
serve the Lord, I think, if you would do me the honor 
to come and speak to my family, it might impress 
them ; they might probably remember it during their 
lives : and I hope God’s blessing would rest on this 
dedication.” 

Mr. Lascelles went : and spoke from these words : 
“ And he gave her the upper springs and the nether 
springs ;” and so far accommodated the text to the 
present circumstances, as to entreat, in the course of 
his prayer, that God would not only bless that house 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


219 


with his presence, but that he would prosper the la- 
bors of it, and make it evident to every eye, that god- 
liness is profitable unto all things, having promise of 
the life that now is , and of that which is to come.” 

As soon as Michael could do it, he raised the fol- 
lowing memorial to his master, on a neat tablet : — 

IN MEMORY OF 

JAMES MOSS, Yeoman, 

AGED FIFTY-FIVE YEARS, ETC. 

HE WAS INTERRED NEAR THIS SPOT. 

EMINENT DURING THE LAST YEARS OF HIS LIFE FOR 
HIS SINCERE PIETY : 

HUMBLED UNDER EVERY FAILURE IN DUTY, WARMED BY 
THE LOVE OF HIS SAVIOR I 

HIS LAST HOURS WERE GILDED BY THE BRIGHT ANTICIPA- 
TION OF THE GLORIES OF HEAVEN. 

NOT A DOUBT SHADED HIS DYING HOURS I 
HIS END WAS PEACE. 

CTfjt a Ittemortal 

IS PLACED HERE BY HIS GRATEFUL SERVANT, 

MICHAEL KEMP. 

Many were the observations of the different inhab- 
itants : some thought it was a pity it was only square 
and plain ; that angels at the corners would have 
looked pretty ; and that, if Mr. Kemp must put up 
something, it should have been handsome. Others 
thought it was a reflection on the family, for Mr. Kemp 
to stick his name at the bottom : they wondered how 
Mrs. Finch could like it. Some said they could not 
make out what he meant ; they supposed he got Mr. 
Lascelles to write it : and, if he would stick up some- 


220 


THE HISTORY OF 


thing, why did n’t he put it inside the church, instead 
of out ? “ Oh !” said one old woman, “ that Mr. Kemp 
is a very close-fisted gentleman, I ’ll assure ye. I 
happened one morning last winter to go to the Brow 
for a little help. I could not get any work ; and says 
he, c You smell too strong of gin, mistress.’ Now, to 
be sure, I had had a glass ; for it was bitter cold 
weather : he shut his door ; not a farthing would he 
give me ! No, no ; I never saw the color of his mon- 
ey. Well ! young misers are the worst of misers !” 

These tales made no impression on the heart of 
Michael. He had done what he thought right : he 
left it. 

On the 27th of March he set out for the Valley 
Farm, to fetch his sister. Never was he so unwel- 
come ; for every heart at the Valley beat kindly tow- 
ard Fanny Kemp, and Jemima loved her as a sister : 
and Fanny’s ardent spirit returned her dear young 
mistress’s affection with more unreserved tenderness. 
Mrs. Finch, too, was grieved at heart to lose such a 
faithful, active young creature, whose very look and 
step spoke cheerful happiness, and whose way was 
marked by useful order and willing duty. Kemp felt 
himself awkwardly situated : he almost feared it 
would be presumption to ask them to visit at the 
Brow ; he thought it might look ungrateful to be 
silent. He resolved he would say something ; and, 
taking the opportunity when Mrs. Finch was inquiring 
how things went on, he said, “ Madam, your room 
and Miss Jemima’s are still yours ; and if you would 
give your poor servant the pleasure of seeing you 
there again, it would not be ungratefully received. 1. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


221 


At the same time he paid £25, his quarterly settle- 
ment. 

There was in Kemp’s conduct something so beyond 
what Mrs. Finch had ever seen in any other charac- 
ter, that she was continually constrained to say within 
herself, “ This is a most extraordinary young man !” 

The evening before they were to set out, Michael 
and Fanny went to tea at the Level-bit : and the 
reader may be assured that Ellen Meredith neglected 
nothing that might show respect to Stephen’s great 
relations, as she already considered them. She had 
even a glass of wine to offer, before they went out in 
the cold: it was a remnant of a bottle given her in 
sickness by the lord and lady. “ They want but one 
thing,” said Fanny, “ but one thing, my dear brother.” 
— “You must pray for them, Fanny.” — “ I do,” said 
this affectionate girl. “ What a sweet creature that 
Ellen is !” said she : “ I really think there is some- 
thing good about her !” — “ Do you V ’ said Michael ; 
and he said it so quickly, that Fanny, with her natural 
acuteness, caught the secret, but said not a word. 
There was in Michael’s character so much natural 
weight and dignity, that no member of his family ever 
attempted to penetrate that which he had not commu- 
nicated. 


19 


222 


THE HISTORY OF 


CHAPTER VIII. 


The intercourse was pretty closely kept up be- 
tween the mill and the farm, and Michael was in- 
creasingly pleased with the prospect of Fanny’s hap- 
piness. There was one subject which gave him yet 
more pleasure — she was evidently in earnest in re- 
ligion ; and though her natural vivacity still appear- 
ed, it was so tempered by her principles, that it might 
rather be said to credit her profession than to dis- 
grace it. 

Poor Joe, who had been with them nearly a year, 
went on very amiably. We have said but little of 
him ; he was a sort of character of whom little can be 
said : very pleasing, when supported, but little natural 
energy ; very apt to take the opinions of those by 
whom he was surrounded. But Joe was very happily 
situated : he might be said to have two fathers and 
two mothers ; for Michael and Fanny took on them 
so much the parental character, that he was as safe 

as at P ; so tenderly did they watch over him. 

But everything that Michael observed in his charac- 
ter convinced him that the greatest care was needful 
to keep him from improper society : he was quite to 
be depended on ; whatever Michael gave him to do, 
was done ; but he had no ability to plan, and would 
have sat down as helpless as a child if his daily era- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


223 


ployments had not been pointed out to him. Michael 
had some fears lest the daily visits of his master’s 
bad cousin might be injurious to him. This unhappy 
man was fond of talking to any one who would listen ; 
and Joe, whose mind had few resources within itself, 
found amusement in listening to the various jokes, 
and (what this poor mistaken man thought) clever 
tricks, which his low associations had led him to ad- 
mire ; and Michael very gravely told Joe, that if ever 
he found him in the society of this man, except when 
necessity required it, under his own roof, he should 
consider it his duty to return him to P . 

Joe was greatly affected by this declaration. If 
Michael was not proud of his elevation to the Brow, 
Joe was : and he looked upon himself, not as a ser- 
vant, but as a kind of partner in the farm : and, as they 
walked together to church, he thought they were as 
good-looking a family as any in the parish ; and, as 
he stood up to sing, he always fancied the Misses Jen- 
nings, in the opposite pew, were admiring him ! Poor 
lad ! these vanities seem harmless ; and so, indeed, 
they were, to every one, but himself; but they hin- 
dered his improvement in every way. Instead of list- 
ening to the sermon, he was thinking, “ Who knows 
but Miss Jennings may take a fancy to me ?” and 
when Harry Jennings asked him home to tea on Sun- 
day afternoon, the dreams of his light mind seemed 
confirmed. 

Michael was penetrating ; he had observed an in- 
creasing care of Joe’s person ; he had observed the 
vacancy of his mind during worship ; he overheard 
the invitation to tea ; and he thought it the first step 


224 


THE HISTORY OF 


to imprudence, not the less dangerous because it 
seemed innocent. He determined not to be asked, 
and yet not to permit him to go ; so, suddenly, as 
he passed from the church-porch, he slipped his 
arm within his brother’s, and said, “ My dear boy, 
I must excuse your attendance at the Sunday-school 
this afternoon and speaking to the master, said, 
he should thank him to let some one take Joe’s class ; 
and then, walking on with him, with a firm important 
step, they had nearly crossed the church-yard, when 
Joe said, “ Brother, I must speak to Mr. Henry Jen- 
nings.” “ I ’ll wait for you,” said Michael ; “ but do 
not stop, for I have something important for you.” 
This was addressed to Joe’s weak side, “ Something 
important for me ? What can it be ?” He stepped 
back, and said, “ I ’m sorry, Mr. Jennings, as I can’t 
come this afternoon, as something — ” “ I hopes as 
nobody is ill,” said Mrs. Jennings ; “ I hopes as noth- 
ing very bad is the matter, Mr. Joseph.” “ No, mad- 
am,” said Joe ; and he was highly delighted to hear 
this foolish old woman say, as he joined his brother, 
“ What a very handsome family them Kemps is !” 

Michael heard this sensible speech. It was in- 
tended he should hear it ; and it gave him an oppor- 
tunity to speak to Joe on the folly of personal vanity, 
and besides, on the sin of it. But he must make good 
his abrupt seizure of Joe’s arm ; and, turning to Ste- 
phen, who was behind with Fanny, he said, “ My 
good bachelor, can you give us a dish of tea at the 
mill ? I want to have a little conversation : and we 
can walk together to the rectory afterward.” 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


225 


Stephen assured them that he could ; and the fam- 
ily party bent their way to the mill. 

Fanny had never before seen this neat residence : 
she was extremely pleased with it. Stephen had a 
great deal of his father’s and mother’s turn for neat 
improvement : his willows were carefully trained : 
not a dead branch nor withered end was suffered to 
continue : his little fruit-trees were trained with the 
nicest care, and Michael was pleased to see how the 
provident youth was getting gradually ready. Joe 
was waiting and expecting every minute to hear his 
brother speak. 

At length Michael said, “ Our dear father is long- 
ing to come to see us, and I have put him off till 
Fanny came : it strikes me, that if Joe could take his 
father’s place, it would enable him to stay with us a 
little longer ; perhaps, my dear boy, you would be 
so kind as to set off to-morrow morning.” Joe was 
delighted with the prospect of a change : he should 

see everybody at P , whom he knew, in his new 

clothes ; and he did not know as he should speak 
to some of them : his father and mother had always 
warned him against low company, and so had his 
brother Michael. Poor Joe ! he shared this feeling 
in common with others. To be well dressed, to be 
raised in life, what is it, if there is no one to admire 1 
Tt is not common to meet a young mind superior to 
display. To know what people will say, to see how 
they will look, what mind of a common cast, and un- 
influenced by religion, is proof against this ? 

The morning came, and Joe set off. He bore a 
letter to his parents, which not only invited his father, 


226 


THE HISTORY OF 


but bis mother and little Jane, who was now fourteen. 
It spoke well of Joe ; yet hinted that they would do 
well to provide some one, in their absence, to take 
care. All this they felt and knew, and, ere they set 
out, left everything under safe guidance ; and Mr. 
Walker, who perfectly knew Joe, and saw how ne- 
cessary the praise of man was, to keep him upon a 
right balance, said, “ I am very glad, Joseph, to ob- 
serve your steady appearance : I hope you are tread- 
ing in the steps of your good brother.” This was 
enough : Joe was never seen at the Lion. And the 
good neighbor who had taken up her residence at 
Kemp’s, during their absence, was full of Joe’s praises. 
He was at the nurseryman’s all the day, and in the 
evening dressed himself, and took a walk with his 
young brother and sister, to hear the neighbors say, 
“ What a genteel young man Joe is grown !” to hear 
another say, “ What a steady lad he is !” to observe 
a head turned round, as though the person thought he 
recollected him, and yet did not know him. All this 
was a gratification to poor Joe, and bore him up safe- 
ly ; as a young swimmer is borne up by corks. 

Everything was getting in readiness for Stephen’s 
wedding. Joe had never suspected this, and Michael 
saw no occasion for communication. Affairs were so 
far arranged, that Jemima and Ellen Meredith were 
engaged to come the next month. 

Kemp and his wife arrived in a small tilted cart, a 
horse having been forwarded to them, suited to the 
purpose, by their provident son, Michael ; and when 
they arrived in sight of his nice dwelling, whose 
court was shaded by fine walnut-trees, how did Eliza- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


227 


beth Kemp’s heart beat with gratitude to God ! and 
liow did her husband exclaim, “ I am not worthy of 
the least of all thy mercies ; and yet ” 

The praise was broken short by the appearance of 
Fanny in her wildest hilarity : “ Dearest father ! 
dearest mother ! hav’ n’t you met Michael ?” — “ No, 
child.” — “ Why, he set off at five this morning to 
meet you!” — “We have not seen him, dame.” — 
“ Perhaps,” said Fanny, thoughtfully, “ he might just 
be stepped into the town ; but he will be grieved to 
have missed you.” — “ Ah, child ! he will soon be 
here.” — “I’m sure,” said Joseph, “ what a nice 
place ’t is, Fanny !” 

The appearance .of Kemp and his wife was con- 
sistent with the son’s respectability. And here the 
reader may find it interesting to know how this good 
lad assorted these minor matters. He reflected, “ I ’m 
a poor judge of these things so he wrote a letter to 
Mr. Walker, enclosing a thirty-pound note, apologised 
much for the liberty he was taking, and entreated 
them to believe it was their goodness which encour- 
aged this freedom. He begged they would provide 
with this money linen and upper garments befitting 
parents of a person in the station he now filled ; and 
not to suffer them to know anything of it till every- 
thing was made and ready to send home : “ For, sir,” 
he added, “ I know my father and mother so well, they 
would almost think it a sin to lay out such a sum upon 
themselves ; and I have long seen how they would 
deny themselves anything to give to us children : and 
though I think dress of very little importance, yet I 


228 


THE HISTORY OF 


would wish my dear parents not to see Michael 
Kemp better dressed than themselves.” 

And here let me observe, that few children, in the 
lower ranks of life, consider the shifts and strivings 
of an honest parent to provide common necessaries. 
How often have I seen a decent maid-servant and an 
industrious laborer begin life with hard-saved money, 
bring up a large rosy family, and, as they grew strong 
and manly, and as the girls grew fair and tall, some 
article, well-saved, was spared from the wardrobe of 
the father and the mother, and accepted with little 
reluctance by the children, till the weather-beaten 
form has stood, like a leafless tree upon the waste, 
nearly bare against the storm of winter ! If any such 
children should read this history of Michael Kemp, I 
wish to remind them, that they owe their parents that 
care in age which they have received in youth : that 
to strip the arm which has sheltered them, and to as- 
sist in making bare the form that has bent over them, 
and borne all the ills of life contentedly, so they were 
well and happy — the form which 

“ Retired, content to quake, so they were warmed 

to be capable of this, is a proof of a heart hardened 
by selfishness. What should we do V’ say they. 
“ Do ? do this : give one fifth of your earnings to 
your parents ; and do not fancy it is a gift — it is a 
debt you owe. If your parents are imprudent, give 
it in the necessaries of life ; but give it, or rather pay 
it ; for again I repeat it, it is a debt you owe .' 11 

The hours flew in the family society of Kemp and 
his children, and delighted was Michael to introduce . 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


229 


his father and mother to the evening-lecture at the 
rectory. I wish I could show the reader the serious 
party assembled in the hall, in which Kemp’s father 
and mother, surrounded by their rising family, formed 
a principal group. I can realize in my mind the 
manly figure of old Kemp : his hands in each other, 
resting on the smooth round head of his oak stick ; his 
hair beginning to take the tinge of silver, parted regular- 
ly in front of the head, waving on each side of his fine 
clear forehead, imprinted with thought and care ; and, 
above all, the touch of resignation on every feature, 
his intelligent attention, the varied expression of his 
brow and of his lip, as particular approbation followed 
the excellent lecture. His wife sat by: her drab 
cloak close-tied under her chin, and thrown back over 
each shoulder ; her black bonnet, tied with white, 
shaded her mild countenance ; her hands folded over 
each other on her clean muslin apron ; looking with 
eager attention to gain instruction from the superior, 
yet plain and pious exhortations of the rector : Fanny 
and Stephen in their bloom ; Michael in his ; and the 
little square Jane, as Michael used to call her, whose 
uncommon steadiness and thought had early promised 
that sort of character ^ which questions the levity of 
those around them, and often puts folly to silence by 
the cool “ What for ?” and “ Of what use V 1 It was 
just the mind which some one has aptly called a vice ; 
not one useful idea slipped from her. She had a very 
sublime idea of her brother Michael, and often won- 
dered how Fanny could play with him. Mrs. Las- 
celles, whose quiet tenor of life, whose delicate form and 
health disabled her from much out-door attention, was 
20 


230 


THE HISTORY OF 


in the habit of close and keen investigation of those 
characters whom her husband’s princely benevolence 
brought to the rectory. Often would she say; putting 
her hand gently on his arm, “ But, my love — ” As 
often would he reply, “Well, Mentoria ; now for a 
little cool prudence.” But there was nothing of this 
kind here ; she was so delighted with the appearance 
of old Kemp and his wife, that she gave up her mind 
to unreserved admiration — “I wish Sir Thomas Law- 
rence had been here, my dear ; for I think he would 
have carried in his memory that fine figure of Kemp.” 
Mr. Lascelles, with that inimitable arch-look which 
fine minds sometimes assume, put his hand upon her 
arm, “ But, my love — ” (she laughed) “ No, no ; all 
is right ; no need of caution there : praise is well be- 
stowed.” — “ Why, Mentoria !” — In this brief sketch 
1 have introduced the reader to a character, who, like 
the hidden works of a fine watch, had a principal 
share in all the movements at the rectory : though 
little seen, little known, often thought proud, and al- 
ways considered reserved. 

Stephen, who rose every day in the good opinion 
of Fanny’s parents, seeing the father alone under the 
shade of a fine walnut-tree, putting his spectacles 
quietly in his pocket, having closed the volume, ven- 
tured to say, “ Now you are here, and everything is 
ready — ” Kemp looked up at him with a calm 
smile, keeping a provoking silence, and poor Stephen 
coloring up, ears and all, determined to finish ; and, 
having summoned all the man within him, said, “ I 
should like, sir, to marry next Monday.” — “ Indeed !” 
said Kemp, still smiling; “and who is the happy 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


231 


girl?” — “ Oh, sir !” said Stephen ; and, laughing in 
his turn, ran in, and told Michael he had settled it 
with his father, and that next Monday was the day 
fixed. “ Considering you know nothing of my plans, 
Stephen, this is pretty well arranged ; for I have just 
had a letter, stating that Mr. and Mrs. Walker are 
coming to the rectory ; and, as it has always been my 
wish that this kind benefactor should bless Fanny in 
her most important step in her life, I have not one ob- 
jection to make to the day you fix, except that it is 
market-day : but I can trust William.” — “ It was the 
very reason I fixed that day,” said Stephen ; “I 
thought all the curious people in the village would be 
gone. I have one favor to request : that I might have 
my own Ellen Meredith with me. As to my father 
and mother, I have no wish ; they could not leave 
home with comfort.” Michael made no objection. 
“ How will you let her know ?” — “ Why that is the 
favor I have to ask : I would go and fetch her ; for I 
could not let her travel alone.” — “ Certainly not.” 

Not to weary the reader’s patience with tedious de- 
scriptions, Stephen reached the Valley, inquired for 
Mrs. Finch, and made his request respectfully. She 
replied, “ I believe, Stephen, you will have more com- 
pany than you expect, for my daughter is under a 
promise to be at Fanny’s wedding. If it is Fanny 
Kemp you are to marry, you are a happy young fel- 
low, Stephen Meredith ; you will have such a wife as 
many farmers may envy.” — “I think myself very 
happy , madam and then, feeling a little proudly — 
“ Mr. Kemp says, ma’am, there is no man on earth he 
would prefer to me.” This was not said without 


232 


THE HISTORY OF 


hesitation and coloring. Mrs. Finch had no design 
to wound honest Stephen ; and replied, u You have 
always been a faithful servant and a dutiful son : I 
have no doubt you will make a good husband. I am 
thinking,” continued she, “ that I shall take a chaise 
on Saturday, and accompany my daughter and your 
sister.” 

The reader must remember that Mrs. Finch’s no- 
tions of propriety were correct ; and though she had 
not the slightest objection to her daughter’s presence 
at the marriage, she saw great impropriety in her vis- 
iting, at the Brow Farm, a young unmarried man, so 
pleasing and interesting as Michael Kemp. 

Stephen, whose attention at this moment was con- 
centrated upon himself, thought his old mistress was 
got humble. That she should take a chaise to come 
to his wedding, was indeed a condescension he could 
never have expected it. He now saw no occasion 
for his stay ; and after a little converse with Ellen, 
and a five-pound note slipped into her hand, and a 
wish expressed that it should be laid out in a dress 
for the wedding-day, and a desire that she would con- 
sult Miss Jemima what to buy, he went away to the 
Level-bit, to inform his father and mother of all the 
steps he had taken. 

Ellen kissed and blessed her son. “ I do not ask 
you to be with us, mother ; I know you could not ; but 
my good master desired I would give you this and 
he slipped some money into her hand, which Michael 
had sent, begging that they would spend some portion 
of that day in prayer for him and for them. Ellen 
replied, “ No, my dear. I could not leave the house ; 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


233 


I could not leave the children : and so, Stephen, my 
dear, there will be no one belonging to you at the 
wedding. Poor folks must not be proud, I know, 
Stephen.” — “ O mother ! I came on purpose to fetch 
Ellen ; and if I had thought you wished to be there, 

I ’m sure ” Ellen Meredith had dried the tear, 

and the flush of pride had subsided, the moment she 
understood Ellen was to go, and was succeeded by a 
glow of delight when she heard she was to go in a 
chaise with her mistress and Miss Jemima. 

The little height above us is the elevation to which 
we all look wistfully : and small and transient as was 
the honor of riding forty miles in a post-chaise, it 
filled the area of Ellen Meredith’s mind for many 
days after. It looked well, it sounded well. 

“ Never title yet so mean could prove 
But there was eke a mind that could that title love.” 

Shenstone was right ; and, with the change of “ no 
distinction” for “ never title,” it exactly applied to El- 
len Meredith. 

One embrace more, and Stephen mounted his horse. 
He rode to the park, to take his father and Willy by 
the hand. The father blessed him ; and William felt 
no small pleasure when he heard his brother garden- 
ers say, “ I wonder who that genteel young man 
is, talking to Meredith ?” — “ It is my brother,” said 
Willy ; “ he is a kind of partner-like with Mr. Kemp; 
and he is going to be married to Miss Fanny.” This 
was the first time Fanny had ever been called “Miss” 
It served Willy’s turn, as he thought ; but, like other 
titles, it created more envy than love. Willy after- 
20 * 


234 


THE HTSTORY OF 


ward felt it : and he had recourse to one of his moth- 
ers wise sayings, “ Better to live by spite than pity.” 
Oh for purer morals and more heavenly reflections at 
the Level-bit ! But nothing is too hard for God. 

Stephen’s horse was put to his speed ; yet, care- 
fully rested, carefully fed, and refreshed, it brought 
him safe back to the Brow, where every heart beat 
his welcome : and Fanny was not ashamed to say, 
“ I am glad to see you, Stephen for she was under 
the approving smile of all around her : and wherefore 
should she deny one whom she had so much cause to 
regard the gratification of an honest welcome ? 

tl 0 tyrant custom, how hast thou shackled man !” 

I know not what it is in human concerns ; but when 
we arrive at the highest spot of life, that to which 
every hope hath pointed, every exertion tended, there 
seems fear in the midst of enjoyment. This is more 
peculiarly the case with thoughtful minds. 

The sun rose with splendor on the 15th of June, 
but the group assembled to breakfast were neither gay 
nor talkative. The reverend father, and the placid 
mother, as they took their seats side by side at family 
worship, often closed their eyes, and lifted their hands 
in silent prayer ; and Ellen Meredith was surprised to 
see tears in the eyes of Mrs. Kemp, and wondered at 
the gravity around. Her mistress admired the discre- 
tion of the family, the beautiful cleanliness and order 
of the dwelling ; and was surprised and delighted to 
see how composedly every one of the party conducted 
themselves, on a day which frequently throws even 
equal minds into flutter and confusion. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


235 


At ten o’clock they set out — Mrs. Finch and her 
daughter; Joseph Kemp gave Fanny his arm; Mi- 
chael took his mother ; Stephen and Ellen Meredith 
closed the quiet procession. When they reached the 
church, it was not open ; but they rested contentedly 
a few minutes, looking at the tombstones, and Kemp 
said, “ Michael, let us see where is your master’s 
grave.” He had forgotten, for the moment, that Mrs. 
Finch was present. They walked together toward 
the spot, Mrs. Finch and Jemima following. They 
had never heard that Michael had put up the marble 
slab ; and when they drew near the place, and read 
the grateful memorial, Mrs. Finch was extremely agi- 
tated, took Michael’s arm, and said, “ Honest, grateful 
young man ! God will bless you !” Michael could 
only reply, “ You are too good to me, madam and 
the appearance of Westrip with the keys of the church 
was a relief to all parties. 

The old clerk was almost past his labor ; and Jem, 
partly from curiosity to see the wedding, partly from 
duty to his uncle, and from real love and respect to 
Michael and his family, accompanied his uncle. Ev- 
ery eye had greeted him with kindness : a complete 
change in his maxims had won every heart, so that 
no one regretted his presence. The congregation 
was soon enlarged by the appearance of Mr. and Mrs. 
Walker, Mr. Lascelles, and his two little girls. Rob- 
inson, Mr. Lascelles’s confidential servant ; Phebe, the 
young ladies’ maid ; Mr. Edmund Walker and Miss 
Sophia, strolled in soon after. The reverence and 
decency of the service, the right state of almost every 
mind present, gave a peculiar sensation to the whole ; 


23G 


THE HISTORY OF 


and when Mr. Walker lifted up his reverend hands, 
closed his intelligent eye, and pronounced the blessing 
on the newly united, the “ Amen” was one from every 
heart : and as Stephen took his bride from the sacred 
altar, there was no light step, no giddy mirth ; but 
each walked quietly, silently, and reverently, down 
the hallowed aisle. 

When they had passed the church-gate, and were 
about to separate for home, Michael, with humility in 
his look, said, “ They had all one favor to request of 
Mr. Walker — that he would take his tea, and bless 
the bridal with his presence ; and perhaps — ” “ Yes, 
Mr. Michael : I mean to come,” said Mrs. Walker ; 
“ and I was going to be affronted that you had not 
asked me.” “ And I, the parson of the parish.” 
“ Parson !” said Jane, in an audible whisper, and 
with a look of astonishment. “ Yes, little maid,” re- 
joined Mr. Lascelles ; “parson.” (Jane blushed.) 
Putting his hand on her shoulder, he said, “ Ignorant 
people have made this word a term of reproach : but 
parson means ‘ the person ;’ and, by way of distinc- 
tion, the first in the village : low people, and those 
who despise religion, hating the cause as curbing their 
vices — hating the restraint of true piety — slight God 
in the person of his ambassador, and convert this title 
of honor into a term of reproach.” 

Little Jane never forgot this explanation : and after 
taking a bit of their nice cake, the party from the rec- 
tory withdrew. The young Walkers and the young 
Lascelles’ tripped cheerfully back, after they had left 
the porch, and, laughing, said, “ Won’t you have us, 
Mr. Michael ?” Michael bowed, and said, “ They 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


237 


made him too happy.” He took his mother aside : 
“ It would not become us, my dear mother, to intro- 
duce ourselves into the same room, except at family 
prayer. Before God we are equal : in the sight of 
man there is a wide distinction. The condescensions 
of our superiors do not justify familiarity. We must 
have a separate room for our afternoon company.” 

The affair was settled, and Moss’s parlor was des- 
tined for the visiters. It was an awkward business ; 
the poor mother thought so ; but Michael had one 
principle so firm in his mind, that nothing moved it ; 
it was this : “ Keep your place.” 

The interior of a wedding-day is often very weari- 
some ; the importance of the event that has taken 
place seems to unsettle every mind from minor pur- 
suits. There was a calmness about Jemima that was 
not to be shaken. She opened her work-basket, pull- 
ed out her old women’s caps, and, turning to the 
bride, said, “ Come, Mrs. Meredith, here ’s something 
for you to do.” They all sat down, and Stephen and 
Michael read to the party in turns, under the shade 
of a walnut-tree. 

Old Kemp and his wife seemed lost in meditation 
on the goodness of that God who had led them all 
their life long ; and Betty Smith, who was as busy as 
any housekeeper in the three kingdoms, yet found 
time to love, to admire, and to pray for the happy cir- 
cle : “ To see them, sweet creters, all sitting down to 
work for the poor, it delights my heart !” Mrs. Finch, 
too, could not help seeing, in the conduct of her dear 
Jemima, not only the fruit of her own care, but the 
effect of Jemima’s better principles — her occasional 


238 


THE HISTORY OF 


observations, solid and just, on the book they were 
reading (it was Bean’s Advice to Young Married Peo- 
ple) ; Fanny and Ellen Meredith’s arch looks at each 
other, when there was any good counsel for the wo- 
men; Jane quietly seated, looking out the texts. In 
the midst of all this, who should enter the court-yard 
but James, loaded with a basket of beautiful fruit, and 
very fine flowers from the greenhouse. His young 
mistresses, the Misses Lascelles, had gathered the 
flowers ; and they begged the bride to observe, that 
the one tied with a knot of white riband was for her. 
It was a choice assemblage of everything beautiful ; 
and each one scampered to the neat bedrooms, put- 
ting them in water till the company arrived. Mrs. 
Finch busied herself with arranging the fruit, and 
James returned with his empty basket and the thanks 
of the family at the Brow. 

Excuse me, gentle reader, if I do not tell you what 
they had for dinner ; it is a meal to which I am not 
partial, and 1 turn gladly to the pleasant scene before 
me : for up the acclivity I see a charming party, un- 
der the shade of their parasols, coming to the Brow to 
tea. 

As soon as Michael made known his arrangement, 
there was a universal murmur ; and the youngest of 
the Lascelles, said, “ Papa, did not you say we were 
to drink tea out of doors ?” and the good Mr. Walker, 
with his benign smile, said, “ My friend, Michael 
Kemp, I am a great advocate for good order, and look 
on it with as keen an eye as most people. You have 
carried this matter too far ; we all come to see you. 
Now it strikes me that purpose is defeated if you are 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


239 


to sit in another room. No, no ; my little friend, Ma- 
ria has made a very good proposal ; and to the wal- 
nut-tree we will go, with the leave of the good com- 
pany and sure a happier assemblage of worth, of 
sense, of piety, of rural beauty, were never united, 
than those who now met under the shade of these 
walnut-trees. 

“ Pray,” said Mr. Walker to his wife, “ do you 
know who that young woman is who is speaking to 
Mrs. Finch? there is something very striking in her 
appearance. Mr. Kemp, a word with you : who is 
that ?” “ It is Stephen’s sister.” “Is it !” said Mr. 

Walker, putting his finger on his lip, with a very arch 
look. Not a word more passed. 

It is remarkable that persons in this station are apt, 
when they dress, to think they must step out of it, and 
fancy themselves arrived at the summit of earthly ele- 
gance when they have a veil or a plume of feathers. 
But every one here was in the dress which belonged 
to his situation. It was of finer materials ; it was 
white, for the occasion ; it was very neatly made to 
fit the wearer ; but it was in the customary form, and 
there was no need of any variation from the natural 
attitude. No care of flounces or furbelows : no fear 
of evening dews for the feathers, nor of brambles for 
the lace. If young persons could know what passes 
in the minds of their superiors when they are seen 
dressed beyond their station, it might cure vanity, but 
never excite it. 

We must return to the house, where everything was 
placed in order for the evening lecture ; where James 
came, uninvited ; and where William, who had return- 


240 


THE HISTORY OF 


ed from the market, was gratified with a sight of the 
bridal train. 

Mr. Walker had chosen for his subject what will 
naturally occur to every reader : the presence of our 
Savior at the marriage of Cana. He observed : “ Re- 
ligion is no check upon real happiness, but a curb on 
those pleasures which touch on vice and immorality. 
Here, under the smile of parents, and advisers, under 
the eye of the mistress and the pastor, and, above all, 
under the blessing of the good Shepherd of souls, we 
rejoice reasonably, we rejoice purely. I will not now 
anticipate moments of sorrow and. distress ; I will not 
now talk of the parting hour. God hath given us to 
enjoy as well as to suffer ; and sufficient unto the day 
is its evil. Only keep close to God ; listen to 1 the 
still small voice vary not from its guidance on every 
occasion ; and if ye should be called to suffer, my 
life for yours, there shall be a support in those suffer- 
ings which ye would not exchange for the world’s 
brightest pleasures.” 

He closed with prayer, short and expressive ; and 
rising ere he gave the blessing, he spread his benevo- 
lent hands, as though he would have touched the head 
of every individual present, and pronounced the sol- 
emn words, “ The Lord be with you ! the Lord bless 
you ! and lift the light of his life-giving countenance 
upon you, and give you peace !” 

The shades of evening were closing in, and the 
scene was lit by a milder ray. The servants from 
the rectory appeared, with cloaks and shawls, and 
the happy group separated. Jane and Ellen went 
home with Stephen and F anny to the mill ; and Mrs. 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


241 


Finch remarked what a day of unbroken pleasure they 
had passed. Jemima observed, “ I hope, my dear 
mother, I shall return satisfied to the Valley; but I 
have lost a great deal in Fanny Meredith : and if ever 
you do leave off business, I hope we shall come to 

.” Mrs. Finch quickly replied, “ I do not 

know what I shall do, my dear : I have friends in 
both places. I should be sorry to leave James, 
quite.” 

Jemima felt she had been wrong ; and Michael, 
with that keen good sense and nice feeling of propri- 
ety which ever accompanied him, endeavored to divert 
the pain which each appeared to feel. “Madam,” 
said he, “ I trust you will always know that you have 
two houses. Nothing reconciles me to possessing 
this property like your presence and your smile. It 
clears my character from suspicion ; and, while you 
condescend to notice me, and to visit here, I shall be 
respected. It will silence the tongue of slander, that 
the sister of my late master should continue her re- 
gard and protection.” 

Mrs. Finch replied, “ I am something like Jemi- 
ma, Mr. Kemp : I shall be very sorry to go.” And 
here Joseph Kemp put in his word : “We have been 
very happy with them, ma'am ; they are good boys 
and girls ; and if the presence of God remain with 
them, they will continue so. There is none keeps 
like him ; there is none gives like him. He giveth 
liberally, and upbraideth not. He maketh men to be 
of one mind in a house. Where his spirit is, there 
is peace.” The mother’s eye was lifted up, and a 
21 


242 


THE HISTORY OF 


silent ejaculation, and f ‘ That is true ! very true !” fol- 
lowed. 

The next morning they began seriously to talk of 
going. The whole mill party was there ; and Fanny, 
with her arm round her father’s neck, was entreating 
that they would spend one day at the mill : “ and in- 
deed I shall run to the rectory, and beg Mr. Walker 
to come and sit under my willow’s ; I do n’t see why 
Michael should have all the good things to himself.” 
Michael was standing by ; had parted the hair upon 
her open forehead ; had imprinted a brother’s kiss ; 
had breathed a brother’s blessing : “ I am quite of 
Fanny’s mind, sir; we must all go to the mill this after- 
noon, and sit under the shade of Stephen’s willows, 
w r hich kiss his mill-stream continually. There ’s the 
Meredith spirit in him. I do suppose there never 
was such a mill in the country : not a weed can live 
in his garden ; and a spider would have a sorry life 
of it that sought a retreat in his mill. But pray, where 
do you propose to find boys to satisfy your clean 
spirit ?” — “I really do not know ; but clean they 
shall be, if they 1 ve with me. 1 ’ve been used to 
it at home, I ’ve been used to it with my mis- 
tress, and I ’ve been used to it with you : and I 
cannot live without it.” Mrs. Kemp took his hand : 
“ V ery right, my son ; only do not make an idol 
of it. Do not let a broken hedge, or a dusty table 
come between you and your God. I warn you, be- 
cause I know what it is. After a weary day, when 
I should have knelt me down and thanked God for his 
goodness, I was spending a part of my time putting 
my little room in order, and could not pray till every- 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


243 


thing was straight. This is all very wrong, my dear ; 
seek first the kingdom of God.” 

Perhaps the reader would like to walk, or rather 
trip, to the rectory with Fanny. She took Jane with 
her, for company : and the little steady girl almost 
looked like her protector. “ What are you thinking 
about?” said Fanny. “I cannot always tell,” replied 
Jane. “ But you might tell me .” After a little hesi- 
tation — “ I was thinking I should like to keep Mi- 
chael’s house.” — “You!” said Fanny. “Yes, in- 
deed ! why not ? I am sure I could be of great use 
to Betty. You see, she is not young: and I could 
see to Michael’s linen. Some of his neckerchiefs 
want hemming.” — “ Now that is a reflection upon 
me,” said Fanny. “ Not at all ; but I only mean, I 
could be of use now you have left him.” If Jane had 
spoken unvarnished truth, she would have said, she 
liked her visit to the Brow so much, she did not care 
to go home. 

By this time they reached the rectory. The ser- 
vants were pressing, and curious to see the bride. 
She asked for Miss Sophia Walker. This young lady 
was greatly surprised to see her, and pleased with her 
simplicity. She made known her wishes that they 
would all come that evening to drink tea at the 
Mill. The little Lascelles’ were crossing the hall, 
and were delighted with the prospect of another 
pleasant afternoon ; and ran in haste to their mother’s 
dressing-room, to communicate who was in the par- 
lor. Mrs. Lascelles begged she would walk up stairs, 
which Fanny immediately did. She met her with a 
soft look at the door : “ My dear Mrs. Meredith, I 


244 


THE HISTORY OF 


have not been unmindful of you, though my health 
confines me chiefly to morning air. You see here is 
a small parcel for you and she laid her hand on one 
sealed, and directed for “ Mrs. Meredith , mill” 

Fanny expressed her thanks ; and told Mrs. Las- 
celles she hoped she would, some morning, if she 
could walk so far, do her the honor to come and see 
her. By this time Fanny reached the hall. The 
kind inhabitants and visiters at the rectory were as- 
sembled there, and Jane stood replying in her steady 
way to every question of Mrs. Walker. “ Oh, Fan- 
ny !” said her reverend friend, “ and so you set up for 
company to-day ?” — “I hope you will come, sir,” 
said the artless girl ; “ Stephen and I shall be so de- 
lighted !” — “Everybody seems willing,” said Mr. 
Lascelles, “ from the rector down to his little Maria.” 

It was settled, and to the mill they went. The 
ground sloped gradually down to the water’s brink, 
and its bank was fringed with such flowers as love 
moisture : while the modest furniture of Stephen’s 
parlor, neat and strong ; his well-trained honeysuckle, 
and roses round the window ; his new family bible 
on a table in a little recess, by the side of the fire- 
place — all caught the attention of the party as they 
entered. Mr. Walker immediately spied the book, 
and placing his hand upon it, said, “ I recollect, some 
years since, seeing (I think it was in the Christian 
Guardian ) a description of a lady who placed her 
bible in full view in her parlor, and said, ‘ Lie there, 
thou best of books,’ &c. I would say to you, in the 
same spirit as the good lady spoke it, I trust, let this 
book be a check upon all that is light, and vain, and 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


245 


trifling, my dear young friends.” — “ That,” said Fan- 
ny, “ was Mrs. Lascelles’s gift, sir” (turning to Mr. 
Walker). 

Mr. W. She is like an unseen spring : which fer- 
tilizes as it flows, and is only to be traced by its bene- 
fits. She has some nice plans in her head, now, 
Fanny, which you will doubtless hear of soon. I 
tell her, her dressing-room is the plotting-room ; there 
are strange conspiracies there against the reigning 
vices. — But we must begin upon the strawberries and 
cream, for I see there ’s a fine set-out. 

Now Michael and Stephen insisted upon being the 
footmen ; and greatly were the company amused, par- 
ticularly the children, to see how quickly everything 
refuse was floated down the stream. Mr. Walker 
could not help being merry upon Stephen’s happy sit- 
uation ; a stream at his very door, not only fertilizing, 
but washing away everything impure. “ Why, Ste- 
phen, this is the very place for you.” — “ Yes, sir, in- 
deed !” said Stephen, with a very good grace ; “ I 
hope there is no harm in cleanliness ?” — “ None at 
all ; only let us mind one thing ; let us clean the inside, 
as well as the outside of the cup and platter.” Mr. 
Walker insisted that Mr. Lascelles should lead that 
evening ; and he chose, “ Except the Lord build the 
house, they labor in vain that build it.” He said, 
" He trusted that the first setting out of these young 
people was under the Lord’s smile, under his favor, 
and his guidance ; and that their honest labors would 
be successful.” He referred them to Proverbs : 
“ Every wise woman buildeth her house and took 
occasion to observe, “ how much depended on the 
21 * 


246 


THE HISTORY OF 


character of the wife ; what influence she had ; and 
that the wisest of men had decided, under the influ- 
ence of the Spirit of God, that the wise woman budd- 
ed her house : not that she might build, but that she 
did build — she kept it together, she supported it, she 
ornamented it. In short, she budded her house ; she 
made her husband’s home a shelter to him. How 
many weak and foolish women have I seen, who lit- 
erally plucked it down with their hand ; whose folly 
and lightness sent the husband a wanderer from his 
dwelling ! There are minor securities in married 
life, as there are minor securities in building. A lit- 
tle mortar keeps out the wind ; the aperture neglected, 
the storm makes its way, and the dwelling is injured ; 
so, small kindnesses, small attentions to the ruffled 
temper, give unbroken security to peace, and prevent 
the devastations of the storm. Soft answers turn 
away wrath : but I foresee she will do him good, and 
not evil, all the days of her life. The heart of her 
husband doth safely trust in her : but let him remem- 
ber, that a prudent wife is from the Lord ; and let us 
all remember, that it is the Lord that buildeth the 
house.” 

It would be both pleasant and profitable, were it 
convenient, to go on describing all Mr. Lascelles 
said : Fanny’s tears, and Stephen’s emotion, and Mi- 
chael’s up-cast eye, and the father’s and the mother’s 
still and fixed attention, and the interested looks of 
every being there, showed how they felt the address. 
Thus the bridal was twice blessed ; and the scene 
closed under the happiest auspices. 

Perhaps the reader would have no objection to hear 


MICHAEL KEMP. 


247 


the reports and observations of the villagers, with 
which these two families stood connected. Mr. 
Greaves observed, that “ he was right , after all : 
Madam Finch was gone to be married ; and he thought 
it would have been more decent if she had suffered 
the young man to fetch her, and not to have run after 
him herself ; and then he heard as it was not her, but 
Miss Jemima. That was a little better, to be sure ; but 
still he thought the young man should have come after 
her.” And when he heard that there was no wedding 
at all, either for Mrs. Finch or Miss Jemima, but that 
they returned quietly to the Valley, he wandered up 
and down, “ in endless mazes lost.” 

Miss Jennings regarded it as a very strange thing 
that Mr. Joseph was not at the wedding : she thought 
he was kept under too much ; that he was a young man 
now, well grown, and had no business to be kept un- 
der by his brother. These observations passed harm- 
less, for every one was too busy and too happy to at- 
tend to them ; and, till the moment of my quitting the 
society of these happy families, peace and love reigned 
undisturbed among them. 

Reader ! the dearest friends must part. Methinks 
I could like to live among these good people myself ; 
but it must not be. I must go home ; and home is a 
delightful place, after all ! and my home has so many 
attractions, that I do not think I would exchange it — 
no ! not even for the Brow, the Valley, or the Mill ! 



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